Within You, Without You
by paradocs666
Summary: Two women - two killers - try to adjust to new lives. Neither can forget the past, but the future begins to offer possibilities as friendships form.
1. The District Sleeps

Title: Within You, Without You ~ Chapter 1: The District Sleeps  
Author: paradocs  
Pairing: Buffy/Ziva  
Summary: Two woman - two killers - try to adjust to new lives. Neither can forget the past, but the future begins to offer possibilities as friendships form.  
Rating: 18 for violence and language  
Spoilers: All of BtVS; I have used some ideas and characters from Season 8 but I will not be following canon. Up to Season 7 of NCIS around 'Code of Conduct'.  
Disclaimer: These characters belong to DPB, CBS, Paramount, et al. No copyright infringement is intended. 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' belongs to Joss Whedon  
Primary Characters: Buffy, Ziva, Gibbs, DiNozzo, McGee  
Other Pairings: Already taken care of. A few will involve Woman/Woman relationships with characters whose sexual preferences have already been defined: Willow, Kennedy, Satsu.

Everything up to the beginning of Season 8 is Canon; I will be altering the course of events slightly as I progress.

**October 20th, 2009, St. Paul's Rock Creek Cemetery, Washington DC**

10:31 on a Tuesday night. It had stopped raining a few hours ago but puddles glimmered in the headlights as the car crept down the driveway that led to the home of the caretaker of the _Rock Creek Cemetery_. He pulled up beside a newer model Ford F-250 and turned off the engine; opened the car door and put his left foot down, with a splash, on the wet tarmac. His right foot followed as he extricated himself from the driver's seat. He took a moment to gather his 30th wind of the last 30 days, closed the car door and approached the small Victorian house on his left. The front door of the building opened and a lean man with sparse silver hair stepped out.

"Evenin'. Somethin' I can do for yeh?"

"Uh, yeah. Are you Mr. Edward Roberts?" The man nodded. McGee reached into the pocket of his trench coat for his wallet. "I'm Special Agent Timothy McGee; we talked on the phone an hour ago?" He stepped up onto the lone step that rose to the door stoop, opened his wallet and showed Mr. Roberts his ID.

"Wasn't expectin' you 'til tomorrow." Mr. Roberts reached inside the house for his coat and closed the door behind him. "Don't matter. Wasn't much on TV anyway. You wanna follow me?" McGee nodded. "Alright then. I'll say the same thing I said on the phone though – this ain't no normal grave robbin'."

"That's why I'm here, Mr. Roberts."

* * *

McGee followed Mr. Roberts' truck to the scene and pulled as close to the side of the drive as he could without touching the grass. He grabbed a flashlight and camera from the seat beside him, got out of his car and joined Mr. Roberts who was leaning against his truck, arms crossed over his thin chest.

"There it is – can't figure what dug that hole though. You'd figure if someone were thinkin' to rob the body they'd need to open up the ground enough to get at it, right?"

McGee turned on his flashlight and scanned the ground in front of the headstone. "Yeah, that is strange." He circled the beam of light around the irregular mouth of the narrow vertical tunnel and noticed something else that was strange. "Where's all the dirt?"

Mr. Roberts shrugged. "This is how it looked when I found it."

"Huh. Uh, if I can just take a picture of the bottoms of your boots – just for elimination. I'll need your prints later as well, just in case . . ."

Mr. Roberts nodded. "You do what you gotta; I'd bet my prints are still kickin' around in some dusty file from my years in the Service." He lifted his right boot and held it steady while McGee snapped a picture.

"You were in the service," McGee asked.

"Yeh. Korea. I was there on Pork Chop Hill with Lieutenant Shea. Great man."

McGee nodded. He focused the camera on Mr. Roberts left boot and took a photo. "Thanks. One more question? What-"

"I'm a size ten." Mr. Roberts grinned. "Figured you'd ask me. You alright on your own?"

McGee looked around only now realising now how lonely it was: beneath the dark grey clouds that nearly filled the night sky; amid the stones marking the last resting places of the dead. He shook the macabre thoughts from his head and answered Mr. Roberts' question.

"I'll be ok. Thank you for your help, Mr. Roberts. I should get to work."

Mr. Roberts nodded and opened the door of his truck. "Alright, son, I'll leave yeh to it."

McGee watched the tail lights of the caretaker's truck dwindle into the mist and shivered. He winced, knowing what Tony and Ziva would say about his apprehension. Best not to think about that right now. He gathered a stack of evidence tags and walked the perimeter of the scene.

* * *

Mr. Roberts returned ten or fifteen minutes later and pulled up behind McGee's car.

"Thought you might need some light and a little somethin' to warm you up."

Mr. Roberts handed McGee a car cup that he'd filled with strong black coffee and started unloading the first of the three halogen lights from the back of his truck. McGee thanked him gratefully for the coffee but took only a sip before he set the cup down on the hood of his car and went to help the caretaker with the lights. Five minutes later the halogens were set up on their tripods and white light bathed the suspected crime scene.

Mr. Roberts took a few more items from the bed of his truck and laid them on the wet grass beside McGee's car: a spade; a trowel; a folded sheet of plastic; and two buckets. "Thought these might come in handy if you need to dig around." He shrugged. "Though, I'd imagine you'll be wantin' to dig up the casket come morning anyway."

McGee thanked Mr. Roberts again and picked up the coffee cup. He sipped carefully – black and strong but not bitter – and felt the wonderful heat slide down his throat.

Mr. Roberts waved off the thanks. "Just a little thing, but hope it helps. Things like this shouldn't happen – a man like him deserves respect."

"I agree, Mr. Roberts. And we're going to catch who did this."

Mr. Roberts nodded succinctly. "I believe you, son. Just knock on my door when you're done with the lights and I'll come 'round and pick 'em up."

After the caretaker had gone, McGee sipped his coffee and decided where to begin next; honestly, he was trying to avoid the crime scene sketch. He tried too hard for perfection sometimes, like when he sketched a scene; this led to frustration and much erasing. And with fingers that could barely bend – though the coffee was helping – the process would only be more stressful. Which left him with two options: taking a closer look at the ground for evidence and – he shivered – investigating the hole.

McGee sighed. "Might as well get it over with."

* * *

McGee sat in his car with the engine running and the heat on full. He was so cold and not just from the damp chill of the night. The cold he felt was deep in his bones – he'd felt it before, the times he'd managed to dodge a bullet with his name on it; the times that colleagues hadn't.

'Evidence doesn't lie,' he reminded himself. 'But . . . just because the evidence points to one thing doesn't mean there isn't a more logical explanation.'

He had gone over the logic; pieced the evidence together and looked for alternate theories. He was dirty and tired from his efforts. It didn't matter that there was a possibility that this was some kind of elaborate and distasteful prank and Corporal David D. Miller would be discovered . . . somewhere. Either way, he'd called Gibbs and Gibbs had called Tony and Ziva and now all them were on their way and he was going to have to explain, without sounding like he'd subscribed to Abby's theories on the supernatural, what he had found.

He saw the headlights of an approaching vehicle and turned off the engine of his own car; he got out – reluctantly – and slammed the door behind him. He crossed his arms and stared at the violated grave like he was challenging it to tell him the true story. A car door slammed behind him and Gibbs calm, authoritative voice, greeted him; the utterance of human speech sounded strange in McGee's ears after the hour and a half silence that only he had filled with the disharmonic acoustics of his labours. "McGee." Gibbs stopped beside him and held out a coffee cup. "Cold night."

McGee accepted the coffee gratefully and wrapped his chilled fingers around the cup. "Thanks."

Gibbs nodded; he was surveying the scene casually, the partially excavated tunnel in particular. "How long have you been out here?"

McGee reflexively lifted his wrist before he remembered that he had removed his watch before he'd started his examination of the tunnel. "A few hours. I didn't want to call until I was sure this wasn't a hoax and then I guess I got carried away."

Gibbs sipped his coffee and glanced at McGee. "Mmm, sometimes getting carried away isn't such a bad thing. If you get results. Should've called earlier, though; you know better than to process a crime scene alone."

McGee felt his stomach clench and not from the eerie sensation that had been creeping up and down his spine for the last hour and a half. This was definitely anxiety – the same variety he had felt leading investigations in the past; not quite as intense as the anxiety he had felt when he'd been accused of killing a decorated cop. Part of it, he knew, was his fear of disappointing the man standing next to him.

When the first set of headlights flashed against the wet pavement, his anxiety grew a little. Tony was here and no matter how hard McGee had tried over the years to prepare himself against the inevitable barrage of teasing words and ridicule, he had yet to master the Zen like state worthy of a Buddhist monk that would preserve his inner peace.

Ziva, whose car followed Tony's, required of McGee a different kind of mental preparation. While she would not necessarily tease him, he knew that she would be sceptical and quick to dismiss the possibilities, regardless of the facts presented, unless he could convince her of the veracity of the evidence. In some ways, though, he suspected that she might be a little more open to the feasibility of a supernatural explanation than Tony or Gibbs.

As Tony and Ziva exited their cars and approached, he figured the best he could do was to present the evidence as if this were any other mundane case and let them reach their own conclusions before he even suggested a possible alternative.

Tony stopped beside McGee and rubbed his hands. Ziva, dressed in an overcoat, scarf and hat, stopped at the edge of the drive and looked down on the grave.

Tony glanced at the grave and looked at McGee. "So, what's going on?"

"I was in the office and I got a call from Mr. Roberts, the caretaker here. He said that he'd been out walking his dog and he found this," McGee pointed at the grave. "When he told me that it was Corporal Miller's grave I decided to come out and have a look . . ." He continued with his arrival and meeting with the caretaker; his initial examination of the scene and Mr. Roberts' assistance.

Tony shoved his hands in his coat pockets. "Why didn't you call me, McGee? I would've come out and given you a hand."

"Ah-huh. Sure you would've, Tony."

"Ok, I probably wouldn't have. Not that I was having a fun-filled night or anything but it beat freezing in a cemetery."

Gibbs pushed himself away from the car and and approached the crime scene. "You done whining, DiNozzo?"

Tony joined him by one of the evidence markers. "Yeah, boss."

Ziva glanced at McGee and offered a rare half smile. "I would have come, McGee."

McGee smiled back. "Thanks, Ziva."

Gibbs nodded at the crime scene. "Well, McGee, tell us what you've got."

"Uh, ok. Let's start with the grave . . ."

* * *

She had found a perch in a nearby tree just after she'd seen the headlights of an approaching vehicle. Not the most comfortable place to sit, especially after the Autumn leaves, still clinging desperately to the branches, had showered her with the remnants of the day's rain. She had watched and listened as Agent McGee had processed the crime scene, greatly aided by the lights the cemetery's caretaker and loaned him. When the other agents had arrived – Gibbs, DiNozzo and David – she had grinned and waited for the fun to begin. She didn't think the NCIS agents would find it fun – alarming, disconcerting, maybe even a little horrifying – because she knew what had happened to Corporal Miller; she knew what he had become.

Unfortunately, she hadn't learned of Corporal Miller's transition until tonight and tonight was obviously too late. Which meant that the vampire was out of the bag – or, grave – and NCIS would be a giant leap closer to the truth; Agent McGee was just beginning his run into that leap now.

She followed along as he explained the evidence. She respected his ability to convey the facts without interpretation, even though he was obviously spooked by the possibilities.

Corporal David D. Miller had been attacked and killed on October 14th, 2009. He had been en route from the Cue Bar on U Street to DC9 on 9th Street where he was supposed to meet some friends. This had been verified by Corporal Miller's friends and the bartender who had served him at the Cue Bar. Miller had been found in a parking lot off of 9 ½ St. by two men who were going to their car after a late night at a local accounting firm; his carotid artery had been punctured once and his blood had been drained.

The case was still open.

Corporal Miller had been interred at the _Rock Creek Cemetery_ two days ago. He had been honoured by his brothers and sisters in arms and mourned by his family and friends.

She hadn't suspected that there was more involved beyond the blood loss; hadn't considered that Miller had been turned. Why hadn't he awoken in the morgue? The funeral home? After his damn burial?

Not important now, she supposed. She would find him, destroy the demon and move on – that's what she did. Now, though, she needed to deal with NCIS. Without consciously doing so, Agent McGee was explaining how a vampire rose from his grave: the damage to the lid of the coffin; the disproportionate quantity of dirt on the surface compared to the dimensions of the tunnel the vampire had dug out with his fingers to facilitate his escape – they would find more dirt in the coffin and blood from his hands from where they'd torn as he'd punched through the ceiling of his wooden prison; the deep gouges in the earth made by his fingers as he'd heaved himself up into freedom; the single trail of shoe prints leading away from his grave and into the night where, already, he would sense the human blood he thirsted for.

He was long gone, she knew; she would have sensed his presence.

Agent McGee finished his report and waited for reactions, no doubt expecting scepticism and teasing, as if he had alluded to the possibility that this was what it actually was and not an elaborate hoax or a complex and nasty attempt to murder someone. She figured that, in the morning, they would dig up the coffin and examine it properly. They would test the blood samples and determine that they didn't match the Corporal's. They would find skin samples and, after they did their DNA tests, would determine that the Corporal had been in the coffin. They would go to the mortuary and funeral home and try to find evidence that Corporal Miller's body had been swapped for another – and then they would realize that even if the body had been switched it wouldn't explain the the evidence they had just found because no one could survive being buried in a coffin for that period of time. Paul Simmons, her immediate contact with the Department of Defense – she still got a little hysterical when she thought about working with the US Government – had briefed her on NCIS procedures and the resources available to them. NCIS was going to need them; they were about to have a mystery on their hands.

The agents were loading the evidence into McGee's car. Once loaded, Agent Gibbs told Agent McGee to drop the evidence off at NCIS and go home. And one more thing,

"Hey, McGee – good job."

After McGee had gone, Gibbs and DiNozzo decided to go for a walk to see how far Corporal Miller's trail went. Agent David, who appeared unbothered by being left on her own, started putting up the crime scene tape.

She considered her options for a moment. She could follow the men, just in case, and hope that Agent Gibbs didn't pick up on the tail – and shoot her. But the chances of anything coming up that the two Agents couldn't handle was small and even if they did encounter something of a supernatural nature, she could find them quickly enough.

Approaching Agent David would be tricky: she was very fast, had displayed an uncanny ability to sense possible threats around her, was quite proficient in hand to hand combat and deadly with a gun. But (as McGee had suspected) she seemed more inclined to have an open mind than her team-mates.

"Ah, hell. It's been a boring night, let's have a little fun."

She jumped from the tree and landed with only a little effort, which was quite surprising, really, since her legs and ass were kinda numb. She pulled an apple from the pocket of her sweatshirt and started walking toward the crime scene.

* * *

Ziva was standing outside the crime scene tape facing the grave stone, hands in the pockets of her coat. McGee had done a good job, not that she had ever doubted his abilities. The difficulty she was having at the moment was with what the evidence suggested: someone had been buried alive. It made no sense. Corporal Miller had been buried Sunday afternoon; at least, his coffin had. Why would someone go to all of the trouble to dig up his coffin and replace the Corporal with someone else who was then reburied? And how could this have been done without detection?

The very idea of being buried alive horrified her – to be so close to freedom and life and know that you would never attain it . . .

Her head turned to the left; someone was approaching: 5'2" or 5'3"; slim; wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up; jeans and boots – all black. A young woman, she guessed, by the walk and the general physique. She was polishing a green apple against her sweatshirt.

Ziva took her hands out of her pockets and pulled her coat to the side, exposing her holstered weapon.

"Stop where you are." The woman stopped. "Why are you here?"

The woman shrugged. "Watching you. I mean 'you' as in 'the team' you, though watching 'you' you is fun too."

Ziva frowned. "You have been watching us?"

"Yep." The woman turned her head and pointed at a tree in the distance. "See that tree? I was up in it. Really not a comfortable place to sit for hours – I think I have numb butt."

Ziva was a little perplexed. She wasn't used to bold honesty and this woman had, without hesitation, admitted to watching her and the others. And then there was the way she spoke – confident and relaxed – as if covertly watching government agents was perfectly normal.

"Why have you been watching us?"

"Well, see, originally I was only watching Agent McGee; I wanted to make sure he didn't get into to trouble. Because that," the woman pointed at the grave, "is trouble in big bold letters."

Ziva's expression darkened; she rested her palm on the butt of her gun and backed up to her left to give herself a better view of the mystery woman. "What do you know about this?"

The woman lifted the apple to her mouth and took a bite; she chewed slowly.

Ziva's eyes narrowed. "Well? If you know something, you need to tell me. Or, if you would prefer, I could take you to NCIS and question you there."

The woman swallowed and grinned. "I'll pass on that, thanks. I can tell you a little, but you guys need to figure out the big picture for yourselves."

"Did you have something to do with this," Ziva demanded.

The woman shook her head. From what little Ziva could see of her face, she looked bitter.

"No. Not directly. Like I said, I can tell you a few things, if you want – up to you, Agent David."

Ziva tensed. "How do you know my name?"

The woman shook her head and smiled drolly. "Been watching you, remember?

"So, about your mystery; Agent McGee did a good job of putting the facts together – 'have a few more facts – and can you cease with the death stare? Really, it's kinda giving me that 'just walked over my own grave' feeling. I mean, come on, you've got the gun and I'm all weapon lite."

Ziva relaxed – a little – and removed her hand from her gun. "Fine. Please – explain."

"Ok. So, after you dig up the coffin, there's probably a few things you're going to find that won't make sense. Number one:" the woman raised her left hand and held up a finger, "the lid of the coffin was broken from the inside. Two: if you find any blood, which you probably will, it won't match Miller's. Three: if you find any skin, which you might, 'cause punching your way through a layer of wood that's buried under 4 ½' of wet dirt takes effort, it will match Miller's and four: if you take some of the blood out into the sun, something funky's gonna happen." She lowered her left hand and raised the apple to her mouth to take another bite.

"How do you know these things," Ziva asked. As she waited for the woman to swallow, she inched forward.

The woman swallowed and wiped the juice from her lips. "Experience. And since Agent Gibbs and DiNozzo will be here in a sec', I really need to run."

Ziva's hand went back to her gun. "I do not think so. I don't believe that you have told me everything you know." Her eyes remained fixed on the woman watching for the tell-tale signs that would indicate movement. "And my boss will have questions, as well."

The woman smirked. "Like I said before, gonna take a pass on that." Her right arm whipped up and the apple she had flew from her hand and arched toward David.

Ziva's first instinct was to ignore the apple – but, it was evidence. There would be finger prints on the skin and DNA from the woman's saliva, clues to the woman's identity. She caught the apple deftly in her left hand and drew her gun with her right –

Too late.

Ziva had no idea how the woman had managed to move so quickly out of sight. She scowled into the night. From somewhere ahead and to the right, the woman's voice called back to her.

"_Buona note, bella_. And be careful."

Ziva was still muttering curses under her breath when DiNozzo and Gibbs returned.

* * *

**October 21st, 2009, NCIS **

"McGee, did Abby get a print off the apple?"

"Uh, yeah, she did." McGee switched windows on his screen and turned his monitor a few inches as Gibbs stepped behind his desk. "The prints belong to one Buffy Anne Summers, born in Los Angeles, California, on January 19th 1981."

Gibbs stared at the colour head shot on the screen. "That's it?"

"That's all I can get. When I try to get more information, I get," McGee clicked on the link at the bottom of the page and a security warning popped up, "that. It was issued by the Secretary of Defense."

"I can see that, McGee." Frustration tinged Gibbs' words. "Did Ziva look at the photo?"

Ziva, who had just hung up her phone, answered. "Yes. That is definitely the same woman I spoke to last night."

"The woman you let walk away." The bite in Gibbs' voice was still evident.

"What would you have me do, shoot her? She was unarmed and she did nothing to threaten me . . . and, she was very quick."

Gibbs looked at her silently for a moment and turned back to McGee. "Keep looking."

Ziva rolled her chair back and stood. "That was Abby on the phone; she would like to see us in the evidence garage."

* * *

Ziva, Gibbs and McGee stepped off of the elevator and into the evidence garage. Abby and Tony were staring silently at Corporal Miller's coffin. The evidence Abby had collected was ready to be processed.

Gibbs approached Abby while McGee and Ziva joined Tony.

"Hi, Gibbs," Abby said distractedly.

"Whaddya got for me, Abby?"

"Um . . . Ok. Before I say anything, you have to promise not to lock me up." The look Gibbs gave her was not reassuring. "I'm serious, Gibbs, 'cause this is beyond creepy."

"Just tell me what you've found, Abby."

"Oh-kay. Prepare to be creeped out."

Ziva watched and listened as Abby told the story the evidence had told her. The story of how a dead man had punched through the lid of his coffin, dug through four feet of earth, pulled himself from the ground and walked away.

Just like Buffy Summers had said. She had mentioned something else as well.

"Abby?"

"Ziva?"

"Do you have blood samples?"

Abby went to the steel table the evidence was laid out on and pointed to three sealed jars: one contained a swatch of fabric stained with blood; the other two, wood samples similarly stained.

"Right here. Why?"

Ziva joined her at the table. "Is there more in the coffin?"

Abby was intrigued. "Yep. He must have done a lot of damage to his hands because," she went over to the coffin and pointed inside; Ziva joined her. "See?"

The coffin's lining was spattered with drops of blood, a surprising amount considering most would have smeared on the lid or dropped on Corporal Miller's clothing.

Ziva pointed at the lining where the blood had splattered more densely. "May I cut a piece from the lining? I would like to . . . conduct an experiment."

Abby grinned. "For you, Ziva? Of course." She picked up a utility knife and slid the blade open an inch. "How big a piece would you like?"

Ziva held her hand up, thumb and index finger spread a few inches. "Two inches?"

"Sure." Abby cut a square from the lining and handed it to Ziva. "There ya go. Now what?"

Ziva rolled the cloth swatch up and wrapped her fingers around it. "And now . . . we go outside." She avoided meeting anyone else's eyes because, honestly, she wasn't sure that Summers was entirely sane. "Are you coming?"

Abby, more curious than ever, joined her as she stepped outside; DiNozzo and McGee followed and, after a moment, so did Gibbs.

"Can everyone see my hand?" Ziva looked at each of them to ensure she had their attention. Very much hoping that she wasn't about to be made a fool of, she opened her hand and let the cloth unroll.

For a second, nothing happened; and then, tendrils of smoke swirled up from the cloth. The smoke thickened and Ziva's skin grew hot. The cloth was eroding where the blood had touched it, turning into dust. In a few seconds, only a few tattered pieces of the cloth remained lying on the dust that pooled in Ziva's palm.

"What did you do to it?" Abby sounded like she was accusing Ziva of committing some kind of subterfuge.

Ziva shook her head slowly. "I did nothing, Abby. The woman at the cemetery, Buffy Summers, suggested that I try this; she said that something 'funky' would happen."

Abby looked distressed. "I'll test the material and blood for a chemical that reacts with high levels of UV light." She looked at Gibbs, quietly pleading with him to support her. "Blood doesn't do that, it doesn't just go 'poof' when you expose it to sunlight – right?"

Gibbs answered in a consoling tone, a task in itself considering how frustrated he was. "I don't know, Abby; but if anyone can figure it out, you can. Right now, I really want to get Buffy Summers in interrogation – this whole thing's starting to piss me off."

* * *

Ziva set the phone back in the cradle and closed her eyes. The Director had asked to see her, alone. It didn't matter that she was almost an official NCIS agent – she still needed to complete the requirements for her American citizenship – every time Gibbs or the Director, or both, asked to speak to her alone, she felt anxious. It was silly, of course. Her issues had been dealt with: the Damocles, the Horn of Africa, her betrayal, the trust she had betrayed, her father. She didn't think that she had done anything recently that would be cause for a visit to the Director's office.

She pushed her chair back and stood. McGee was on the phone trying to track down any leads on Buffy Anne Summers; he'd been getting more frustrated with each call. Whoever this woman was, it was becoming clear that her personal information had been removed from every government database that McGee had accessed.

The partially eaten apple Summers had left on the hood of the car had yielded DNA and prints. Abby had run the prints and produced a match to a DOD file that offered only a name, date of birth and nationality. Below this vague information was a security warning, which no one at NCIS seem to have clearance for – including the Director.

Ziva waved at McGee to get his attention and said, "I will be in the Director's office."

He looked at her curiously but didn't have a chance to comment before his attention was pulled back to the person with whom he was speaking to on the phone.

* * *

Ziva smiled at the Director's assistant as she entered reception. The woman smiled back pleasantly and waved her toward the Director's door. "He's waiting for you, Agent David."

Ziva nodded and went into the office. Director Vance was sitting behind his desk reading something on his monitor. He glanced up when he heard Ziva and turned his chair to face her as she sat across from him. She fidgeted with her hands and finally lay them flat on her thighs.

"Director. You asked to see me?"

"How's McGee coming with information on Summers?"

Ziva shrugged noncommittally. "He has been on the phone for the last hour but I don't think that he is having much success."

Vance nodded slowly. "I'm not surprised. I did the same thing this morning. Every agency I called claimed they didn't have a woman by that name working for them; doesn't mean they don't know who Summers is. Finally called SECNAV," Ziva's eyes widened a fraction. "I expected more of the same; instead I got an invitation to lunch. Just got back."

Ziva's anxiety had eased after it became apparent that she was not the focus of the conversation; now, though, she was curious. "What did he have to say?"

Vance smiled casually. "Not much – not directly anyway. He did mention that Summers is working for the DOD, though not in what capacity. When I asked if he could be more specific, he mentioned that even he had orders."

Ziva frowned. "Then this is above his authority? Who is this woman that she is so well protected?"

"That's what I want you to find out, Agent David."

"But, how? We know nothing."

"Not quite. SECNAV gave me one lead. It seems that Miss Summers likes to have a drink after work." The Director picked up a post it from his desk and held it out to her; Ziva took it, read the name and address written on it and put it in her pocket. "Why don't you stop by, after 10:00, have a drink."

Ziva nodded. "And if I see an opportunity to . . ." She shrugged.

The Director leaned over his desk. "I want to know who this woman is. I don't like being spied on."

* * *

**The Black and Tan, Washington**

Ziva pulled her hair back in a ponytail and tied it. Checked the Smith & Wesson holstered at her side, the knife sheathed behind her left hip. Satisfied that she was as prepared as she could be, she entered the _Black and Tan_. The interior of the bar was much like any other: polished wood bar with brass railings; cushioned stools with half backs; varnished tables and metal chairs, organized to seat the maximum number of patrons while leaving enough room for the servers to traverse the bar. The bar was on her right; tables filled the floor on her left and continued from the end of the bar to the half wall that separated the seating area from the dance floor.

The couples and and singles dancing to the surprisingly melodious sounds that reached out form the darkness were more mature and conservative than Ziva had expected; the Summers woman had seemed young, someone more likely to patronize a dance club or one of Abby's Goth bars. Those seated, as well, resonated maturity in their poses and their expressions – changing from face to face – as they conversed and drank. Of the eight stools at the bar, three were occupied: the two closest to her by a man and woman who appeared to be having some kind of emotional confrontation, and the stool furthest from her by the woman she had come to find.

Ziva studied her target, rapidly compiling information as she approached her: faded tan; no obvious indication of superior muscle tone, though it was difficult to tell considering the oversized Oxford shirt she wore; short blonde hair with darker and lighter strands mixed in; thin face possibly caused by malnourishment; strong fingers holding a glass half filled with an amber liquid; black trousers, cuffed and loose; black boots, calfskin maybe. Summers dressed well but, like the hoops and studs in her left ear and the two rings on the fingers holding the glass, none of her ensemble was extravagant; it was easily affordable to someone making a half decent wage. The only item that seemed out of place was the battered and scarred leather jacket that hung from the back of her stool.

As Ziva reached to pull out the stool beside Summers, the woman's head turned and her chin rose – suspicion not quite hidden; an unspoken gravity tugging the smile from her lips.

"So, who ratted me out, 'cause I'm pretty sure there's nothing in my file that says I come here."

Ziva met the stare and answered, "An anonymous source." She sat and turned on her seat.

"Anonymous source? Huh." Buffy threw back her drink and set her glass down. "Hey, James!"

A man in his mid 30's – fairly average looking except for his startling sea green eyes – stood up from behind the bar and toed the beer fridge door shut. "Whaddya need, Summers?"

Buffy tapped her empty glass with the ring on her right index finger – heavy; inscribed with tiny designs around three small stones – and nudged her head toward Ziva. "You get a name change recently? 'Cause Agent David says she got a tip from a source that goes by the name: A. Nonymous."

James reached for a bottle on the back bar. "Wasn't me." He uncorked the bottle and poured Buffy a drink. "Maybe one of the CGR? They play games for a living, remember. I can think of two who would love to play with you."

Buffy's face scrunched up. "Mr. Twitch and Stoney Face?" James nodded. "Yeah. I could see it." She picked up her glass. "Thanks. Maybe I'll cab it and leave the bike. It's not like anyone would steal-"

Buffy froze. And then her chin rose. It seemed to Ziva that she was feeling a presence: much like Ziva could; much like most good agents could.

Buffy set her drink back down and stood. She smiled at James. "Well?"

James glanced at the dancers on the dance floor. "Two. One and one."

Buffy's smile became predatory. "'K."

Ziva watched with a curious frown as Buffy Summers turned and walked toward the dance floor, hips already swaying.

"Does she do that often?"

James grinned. "What, dance? A few times a night; depends on the music. Depending on how busy it is, we play a little game – I call how many phone numbers she'll get and from which sex. If I get it right, she pays double her tab. If I don't, I pay for her drink. After two months, I'm ahead in the game." James rested his palms on the top of the bar and leaned closer to Ziva. "Speaking of drinks – what can I get you?"

"Red wine, dry," Ziva answered. She removed her jacket and hung it from the back of her stool. "This game you play, I don't understand; she's attractive enough, certainly, but . . ." She lifted her hands to her sides, palm up.

James set a glass of wine in front of Ziva and leaned against the bar. "You know, I don't get it either: she's short, too skinny, has more of a half hour glass figure, her eyes are too big, her nose has that funny flat part and there's the scars." He shrugged. "But, whoever put her together knew what they were doing. Guess that's what they see on the dance floor. 'Course, the way she moves helps."

Ziva tried to penetrate the ring of dancers that had formed around a hidden focal point. "Really?"

"Yeah. It's like she's fighting and fucking in slow motion." Ziva sputtered and reached for her wine. "So, what's your business here, Agent David?"

Ziva's lips curled into a sly half smile. "Are you her boyfriend?"

"No. Nothing like that. She calls me her 'Watcher'. I keep eyes and ears out for information she might need. Officially," he took his wallet out of his back pocket and flipped it open, "I work for the DOD – not for any department that you'll find on record, though I report to Daniel Thorpe, the Director of DARPA."

Ziva read the name on the ID: James Tripp. There was nothing to denote position or rank, just his name. "And who does she work for," she asked, wondering how far James' streak of honesty reached.

"That's what you're here to find out, isn't it?"

Ziva shrugged casually. "That would be nice. I am more concerned by her surveillance of NCIS agents." She finished her wine and tipped the empty glass toward James. "Another, please."

James uncorked the bottle of Pinot Noir and filled Ziva's glass. "She will tell you what you want you want, but not until she's sure of you – and your team. You need to understand something very important about her and her colleagues – they don't like Government agencies and have an even greater distrust of the military. Your boss is a marine and you are Mossad – Kidon, right?"

"I am not Mossad anymore," Ziva stated, scraping the bitterness from her tongue with her teeth.

"Not saying she'll never trust you; as far as I know, Buffy has a lot of respect for you – and your team."

Ziva sipped her wine and calmly set her glass on the bar, her middle and index fingers curled around the stem. "Is there anything else I should know?"

James shrugged. "I would tell you not to follow her anywhere – but I'm sure you have your orders. If you do, stay out of harm's way; she doesn't need to worry about civilians becoming collateral damage."

"I'm quite capable of taking care of myself," Ziva said, with a hint of defiance. A low voice spoke close to her ear.

"Depends on what it is I'm saving your ass from, 'cause that guy, at the end of the bar, can't stop looking at you."

Ziva covered her surprise by lifting her glass to her lips.

Buffy sat down and held up two fingers. "You win."

James grinned. "So, either of them meet your standards?"

"Oh yeah, 'cause my standards are so high. And no. The guy was too young and I probably would've broken something and the woman was definitely hot but," Buffy sighed, "she was wearing a ghost ring. So, as always, I'm going home alone. Right after I decide what to do with Agent David."

James nodded at the two women. "I'll leave you to it. I have PO's to get ready for tomorrow."

Ziva returned the nod and Buffy waved.

Buffy rolled her glass between her fingers for a moment before lifting it to her lips and sipping her scotch. "I should've figured you would try to find me. I thought I'd give you some time to verify what I told you about Corporal Miller; you know, what you would find once you dug up the coffin."

"And now," Ziva asked. "Will you continue to follow us?"

"Yeah, probably. I guess, sooner than later, I'm gonna have to make a decision. I can't always get to your crime scenes as fast as you guys and as long as you keep investigating these missing people, there's a very good chance you're going to, um, get into the kind of trouble that leaves you dead."

Ziva bristled at this. "We aren't children."

Buffy smiled wryly. "Probably a good thing 'cause the things I'm talking about, what Corporal Miller is now, are the nightmares that make children hide under their blankets and pray for morning."

* * *

**October 22nd, 2009, NCIS**

Ziva shook off the weariness of another late night followed by an, unfortunately unavoidable, early morning.

She hadn't stayed very long at the _Black and Tan_ after Summers' warning; long enough to finish her wine. After she'd returned home, however, she'd lain in bed, eyes open, still seeing the image of Summers' eerily bright, haunted hazel eyes. She had tried to rationalize the warning as being an exaggeration of a possibly less dire truth. She had lived with death for most of her adult life. She had felt fear as her mortality had hung by a thread: almost a second too slow; almost taken off her guard: one day the thread would be cut. What did Summers know of these things to warn her that her life and the lives of her team mates – her friends – could be at risk?

The bartender, Mr. Tripp, obviously held Summers in high regard, which, in itself, meant little as she knew nothing about him.

Sleep had not come easily and when it had, her dreams had been troubled.

She slumped in her chair and sipped her coffee. She had just finished relating the events of her evening at the _Black and Tan_ to Director Vance and Gibbs. They were seated in the Director's office. Both men sipped their coffee and considered Ziva's information. Finally, Gibbs turned to look at her.

"What's your impression of her?"

"She's an ignigma."

"Enigma," Vance offered.

"Yes. What I saw was a disguise. Her clothing, for example: she dresses well but the style was simple and the colours were uniform and what she wears hides her sexuality." She took a large gulp of her coffee, hoping the caffeine would clear her head. "Which seems odd, considering the bet she had with Mr. Tripp."

"What was the bet," Gibbs asked.

Ziva explained the game Summers and Tripp played. "For a woman who hides her sexuality, it does seem strange that she would dance in a way that would attract so much attention."

Gibbs looked at her questioningly. "Oh-kay. Think you could explain?"

Ziva shrugged. "I didn't see her, but Mr. Tripp said that Summers dances 'like she's fighting and fucking in slow motion'. Pardon my language. When she returned to the bar, though, she was . . . self critical? And it seemed like the attention she had received was less welcome than she was pretending." She finished her coffee and shifted in her chair restlessly. She wanted to be moving, doing something. The quicker she finished, the quicker she could continue her investigation of Buffy Summers. "I did not detect any weapons on her, but she could easily have had one or two concealed in her jacket. She move like she's had some training, though, and I did notice scars on her hands that I suspect she received from striking an opponent." Ziva had a few of those; so did Gibbs. She'd never looked at Director Vance's hands long enough to see if he had them as well. "One last thing." Ziva lowered her eyes, still feeling a little embarrassed by her slip. "Summers managed to approach me, close enough that she could whisper in my ear; I did not detect her until she spoke. That does not happen often."

Gibbs was a little surprised by this; then again, sometimes circumstances and environment precluded the ability to sense someone approaching. He and Vance shared a brief look. Vance leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"Is there anything else, Agent David?"

"I do not believe that she is a threat – to us – though she warned me to be careful as she wouldn't always be able to meet us at the scenes of our investigations at the same time as us and there may be threats."

Vance nodded. "Alright. You mentioned that you put a tracker on her motorcycle – follow her for today, maybe she'll lead us to some answers better than her name and birth date."

Ziva nodded.

"Take DiNozzo," Gibbs added. "Maybe she's not a threat, but until I have proof telling me otherwise – I don't plan on trusting her."

* * *

**On the I 495**

"Any ideas on where she's going now," Tony asked, sounding a little bored. "She's already done the coffee shop, bakery, bank and market – and what have we learned? Nada. Zip. Zilch. A big fat-"

"Tony, enough!" Ziva zipped past the car ahead of them and pulled back into the express lane. Wherever Summers was going, she was going there fast. Not that they could lose her, the tracker on her bike guaranteed that, but Ziva didn't want to fall too far behind in case Summers parked somewhere and continued on foot or, worse, continued in another vehicle.

She glanced at Tony and offered a little reassurance. "We have found something about Summers – where she lives and where she banks. McGee is accessing that information now."

Tony stared out the window and smiled slowly. "When did you become the rational part of this partnership?"

"I have always been rational, Tony. You have just been too irrational to notice." Ziva waited for the retort; when none came, she glanced at Tony and frowned. "What? No witty response?"

Tony shook his head. "Nope. Disappointed?"

It was Ziva's turn to withhold her response. She checked the laptop's display again; the red circle, indicating Summers, was still moving along the I 495, half a mile ahead of them.

"So, what's she like," Tony asked.

"Who?"

"Madonna," Tony dead-panned. "Summers – you know, the woman we're tailing?"

"Oh. Sorry. I haven't had much sleep."

Tony turned his head and studied her profile. "Still having the dreams?" She nodded. "Ask the doctor for something to help you sleep."

"No. Drugs would make me sleep too well. I do not like having my awareness dulled."

"Uh, Ziva, I hate to break it to you but, what do you think not sleeping is doing to your awareness? Think about it."

Ziva's jaw tightened, she really didn't like it when Tony was right. She checked the display again and frowned.

"She's getting off the 495. It looks like she's taking the I 66." She turned her eyes back to the road. "Where does that go?"

Tony looked at the map on the display. "Manassas? She's going to Manassas?" He sounded incredulous. "Why?"

Ziva pulled into the right lane. "I do not know. I guess we'll find out, won't we?"

* * *

"Why the hell is she going to an airport?"

"I don't know, Tony. Perhaps she's taking flying lessons."

They were following a black tarmac drive past a long row of metal hangars. According to the display on the laptop, Summers had stopped at the south west end of the last hanger; Ziva turned into the drive and slowed. They could see Summer's bike and Summers, carrying something in each hand; she was approaching the hangar calmly.

Tony glanced at Ziva. "Well? How do you want to do this?"

"I brought a video camera. Let's see what Summers is up to."


	2. Who are we, Who we are

**Manassas Regional Airport**

"And Buffy has left the building . . . I really gotta come up with some new material."

Ziva wasn't sure if Buffy had even noticed her, or Tony, yet – her monologue indicated that she hadn't.

"Maybe I should hire a writer." Buffy stopped when she reached the sunlight beyond the building's shadows, closed her eyes and smiled serenely. She shrugged off the remainders of her shirt. "It's cool. You guys can move now." She turned slowly and opened her eyes. DiNozzo was still on the pavement, leaning against the outside wall of the hangar. His eyes were closed; his breathing was erratic. Buffy listened more closely:

THUMP-THUMP THUMP THUMP-THUMP THUMP-THUMP-THUMP

Too fast; too irregular.

David was standing and looked bemused but otherwise seemed steady.

Buffy zipped the Scythe in its case and put the crossbow back in her duffel bag. She took a bottle of water from the bag and closed it.

Ziva held a hand out for Tony and frowned. "Tony, get up."

Buffy uncapped the water, took a long sip and went over to DiNozzo and David. She held the plastic bottle out. "Shock. Happens sometimes. His heart sounds like a kid on Espresso playing a drum. Give him a few minutes to figure out that he's not part of the cast of a b-horror and he'll be ok." Ziva regarded the offered water for a moment before accepting it and taking a swig. "I'll be over by my stuff, um, waiting."

Ziva nodded succinctly and knelt beside Tony. "Tony, drink some of this . . . Hey! Open your eyes and drink."

Tony's eyes opened; he blinked like he'd been long in darkness.

"Huh. That was really . . ." He looked at Ziva, saw the bemusement in her expression, even though she was trying to present her 'I'm a Mossad trained assassin and I can kill you with a paper clip' face. There was concern in her eyes as well; he might have questioned it normally but he really wasn't feeling all that hot. "Well, that was something . . . I'll have to ask McGee for a good word when we get back."

Ziva gestured with the bottle of water again. "Drink."

Tony wrapped his shaking fingers around the bottle and lifted it to his lips. He drank deeply and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"So, I've got a question: how can you tell if you're sane if you think you might be insane and only think you're sane?" Ziva looked at him like she too was beginning to question his sanity. "No, really – 'cause what we just saw isn't a good sign of a healthy mind."

"I saw it as well, Tony, and," Ziva popped the memory card from the camera and held it on her palm. "We have this."

"Assuming she doesn't take it, you mean."

A shadow fell over Ziva's hand; she and Tony raised their heads to meet amused eyes and a devious smirk. Buffy crossed her arms and rocked from heel to toe. "I could, you know and then I could have you taken to my secret lair and erase your memories, maybe give you new ones like, oh, let's say – you two being happily married?"

DiNozzo's panic was easy to read not to mention hear; almost made her feel bad for teasing. David expressed defiance and a hint of concern; after almost a month of observing her, Buffy expected nothing less.

"You know I'm joking, right? Only bad guys have secret lairs and playing with people's memories never ends well."

Buffy sat on the pavement a few metres away and crossed her legs. "Sorry you had to see that," she pointed at Ziva's hand, now closed tightly around the memory card. "But, it's not entirely my fault, you know. If you guys hadn't followed me . . ." She started unbuckling her armour. "How did you find me anyway?"

Ziva watched Buffy as she removed her armour – she seemed to be having difficulty using her left hand – and answered. "There is a tracker on your motorcycle; I put it there last night after I left the bar."

"Damn. Guess that means you saw me with my dealer, huh? Keep telling him we should meet in the park like the other cool dealers but he says he gets a kick out of serving rude people in suits who seem to think they have the right to bitch about their girly coffees when the foam's not precisely 1" high."

Buffy sighed as the armour fell away from her torso.

DiNozzo looked at her oddly. "Wait, you have a dealer?"

Buffy grinned. "Yep. Gives me my fix every afternoon – one double espresso and an extra large of the strongest coffee they have brewed." She tugged at the sweat stained neck of the dark tank-top she wore, trying to cool off; that was the disadvantage of wearing armour in semi-warm weather – it made you sweat a lot. The cool breeze was wonderful. The aches, especially in her ribs, were not. "Why do they make ribs so frickin' breakable? You'd figure, with all the important stuff they're protecting, someone would've figured they needed to be more steel like." She began her routine inspection, pressing the pads of her fingers to each rib while breathing deeply. Her other injuries – a cut below her left ear, a bruised thigh and a slight sprain of her left wrist – were minor.

Ziva watched, with a grudging respect for Buffy's thoroughness and tolerance to pain. "Were your injuries a result of the rounds you took?"

Buffy lifted her head and smiled briefly. "Don't think so." She winced quietly as her fingers pressed against a bruised rib. "Pretty sure these are from the horned tank when he punched me in the side. The few times I've been shot, when I was actually wearing armour, and not the good stuff, just left bruises – don't really want to take my shirt off to check, might scare DiNozzo and I think his heart's had enough excitement for one day."

Tony smiled, cocky and charming. "You know, it might help me forget . . ."

Buffy's hand drifted to the hem of her shirt and curled around the fabric. "Ya think?" She pulled the shirt up a few inches, just enough to reveal her bellybutton and a strip of skin. Tony's eyes were fixed on her fingers; Ziva rolled her eyes and sniffed. Buffy let the shirt drop and put her hands on her thighs. She grinned teasingly at the disappointment on DiNozzo's face. "Probably not a good idea; company's coming. Anyway, there's not a lot to ogle unless you like scars – got a few of those that are pretty ogle worthy."

"Who is this 'company'," Ziva asked.

"Just some special forces guys. They help me with the cleanup, mostly, though they have backed me up a few times." Buffy caught the suspicion in David's eyes; it wasn't as intense in DiNozzo's. "It's ok, really. Commander Paris will probably ask a few questions and the medics will check you out." She shrugged. "That's about it. It's mandatory though. Sometimes people can get a little wigged after they've seen something like what you guys saw. A lot of people just block it out and forget it ever happened."

Tony looked doubtful. "Come on – you think anyone could forget something like that," he jabbed his thumb behind him.

"It's true. I lived in a town where weirdness was normal and people knew about it, they just conveniently ignored it. Until about a week before the town went to hell – and I'm not talking the metaphor-y hell either – and they decided that relocation might be a good plan."

Buffy stood. She could hear the sounds of approaching vehicles. "They're here. I'll ask Commander Paris and the medics if they can tag team you so you can get out of here quicker." She took her wallet from her pocket, pulled a card from within and passed it to Ziva. "My phone numbers – in case you stumble on something . . . you know." Ziva took the card. "And make sure you grab your tracker thingy before you go – really don't think you guys should follow me anymore."

* * *

**NCIS**

Tony stepped off of the elevator alone. He turned his head, but before he could speak, Ziva held up her palm, stopping him.

"Get McGee and meet me in Abby's lab. I need to speak to Ducky."

The elevator doors closed before he could respond. The question he was going to ask – "What do we tell Gibbs?"

He went to his desk, took off his coat and threw it over the back of his chair. McGee was seated at his desk, glaring at his monitor. Gibbs' chair was empty.

Tony stepped behind McGee and stared at the monitor. He felt a small quake of unease shake his spine. "Where did you find that?"

McGee glanced up. "I thought I'd check the news and see if Miss Summers was ever mentioned. It was a long shot but I'm still waiting to hear back from someone and I've run out of ideas."

Two news articles were up on the screen. The first was a companion piece to the story that had horrified people across the country. September 27th, 2009, 22 primary school students, including a Congresswoman's son, had been abducted. The students had been on a field trip when their bus had been hijacked. There hadn't been a ransom demand and there had been no indications that they were being used by terrorists as a political ploy. They'd been missing for seventy-two hours and almost everyone had lost hope – a few desperate parents had held on, though the odds of their children being found alive were negligible. And then, a very small miracle – the children had been found. It was a bittersweet answer to the parent's hopes as 12 of the children had been killed and four had required extensive care at the Center – a branch of the Psychiatric Institute of Washington. The identities of the perpetrators had never been released but the FBI claimed that none of them had been found alive. The Congresswoman, whose son was one of the four receiving treatment at the Center, had challenged the FBI's reticence in revealing the identities of the kidnappers to no avail.

And then a second article was released. It glossed over the unpleasant facts of the case and, instead, focused on the children who had survived, the hopes for their speedy recovery and – the reluctant hero who had agreed to be interviewed so that she could offer support and praise to the children who had survived, honest remorse for those who hadn't and a warning to anyone or thing (which seemed like a strange thing to say) who might consider committing a similar act in the future. The hero: 28 year old, Buffy Anne Summers.

The second article was brief. The picture, however, was very illuminating: Buffy Summers and the Secretary of Defense shaking hands. Both individuals had been in attendance at a charity dinner. When Tony studied the picture he had to clear his throat to prevent himself from laughing because this was not the same woman he had just seen: she wore a dress that definitely wasn't off the rack and heels, she almost looked elegant.

Tony straightened. "Huh. She cleans up nice."

McGee's brows narrowed. "How would you know? I thought only Ziva met her?"

"Uh . . . I'll tell you later. Now, I need you to come down to Abby's lab. Ziva has a video; she wants you to . . . you know, do your thing, make it look pretty."

"Ok. Just give me a few minutes-"

"Uh-uh. Now, Tim. This can't wait." Tony stepped out of McGee's space.

McGee got up from his chair and turned off his monitor. "So, what's so important about this video?"

"Don't wanna spoil the surprise, McGee."

* * *

Ziva walked into Abby's lab with a Caf-Pow! in one hand and a vial of blood in the other. Tony and McGee were standing in front of the plasma watching the news.

"Where is Abby," Ziva asked.

McGee turned his head briefly to answer. "Little girl's room."

Ziva put the Caf-Pow! down on the evidence table and took the flash card she'd removed from the camcorder out of her pocket. "McGee?" McGee turned his head again and his body followed as he realised that Ziva was holding a memory card out to him on her outstretched hand. "There is a video on it. Can you, ah, clean it up? Do what you do?"

McGee took the card between his thumb and ring finger and lifted it from Ziva's palm. "No problem." He went to a computer terminal and slid the card in the drive.

Abby returned and smiled at Ziva. "Hi, Ziva." She stopped at the end of the evidence table and looked from person to person. "Why is everyone in my lab? Is someone in trouble again? It's not Gibbs, is it?"

Ziva shook her head and smiled reassuringly. "No, Abby. No one is in trouble." She picked up the Caf-Pow! and held it up. "For you. And," she held out the vial of blood; "can you run a tox screen on this, please?"

Abby took the Caf-Pow! and grinned. "Cool! I just made room, too – and what am I looking for?"

"Anything out of the ordinary?"

Abby took the vial in her free hand. "Ok. Where's the evidence log?"

"There isn't one, the blood is mine."

Abby's grin fell. "What's going on?"

McGee paused the video and rolled his chair back; he looked flabbergasted. "Where did you get this?"

Ziva clenched her hands briefly and fought her tendency to react with impatience. "I will tell you both everything, I promise; but could you please do as I ask first?" Her tone was softened by the plea in her eyes.

Abby nibbled on the inside of her bottom lip. "Does Gibbs know about this?"

Tony answered. "Not yet, Abby, but he will."

"And the blood," Abby asked, looking at Ziva with concern.

Ziva smiled reassuringly and laid her fingers on Abby's forearm. "I would like to be sure that I haven't been exposed to anything that would . . . alter my perception. When you see the video, you will understand."

Understanding dawned on Abby's face. "Ok. I'll start now."

"Thank you, Abby." Ziva crossed the short space to McGee; she leaned over his shoulder and looked at the video playing on the monitor. "Can you make it brighter? I didn't have time to make any adjustments. I'm not very good with those cameras; perhaps I should find someone to teach me."

McGee focused on the monitor as he made adjustments to the video. "It's not bad at all. It shouldn't take long to clean it up."

Ziva squeezed McGee's shoulder and went over to stand by the street level windows. Tony joined her.

"You know what Gibbs is going to say-"

The phone rang. Everyone froze. When it rang again, Abby hesitantly approached it. Before the third ring, she picked up the handset and spoke. "Forensics lab, Abby Sciuto speaking . . . Ok." She pressed the speakerphone button and hung up the handset. "Ok. We can hear you."

The Director's voice responded. "When you four are done what you're doing, come up to the conference room – and McGee? Bring the video."

* * *

"Ok, McGee, run the video."

Gibbs, DiNozzo, McGee, David, Dr. Mallard and Abby were sitting around the conference room table facing the plasma at the end of the room opposite the windows; Director Vance was still standing, off to one side of the screen, his arms crossed.

The video commenced. It wasn't a long video – under five minutes – and it was often difficult to focus on the action, as the positions of the subjects changed so quickly they seemed to leave ghostly images trailing behind them. It seemed ridiculous, really, this small woman, who carried a crossbow in one hand and a strange looking axe in the other, meeting the charge of eight much larger men, two armed with automatic weapons, which they fired at her almost immediate. Summers ignored the gunfire and fired the bolt from her crossbow at the armed man on her left; as his body turned to dust and his weapon fell toward the concrete floor, Buffy threw the crossbow in the face of another opponent, plucked a knife from her belt and threw it at the other gunman. The tip pierced his eye and sank a few inches – unlike any normal human the man did not fall dead to the floor; instead, he snarled and grabbed at the knife's hilts.

Which left six. After a short, but entertaining, melee involving martial arts, tumbling and bodies turning into dust, there was only one opponent – the man who'd, only a moment ago, had a knife in his head. He was leading something bulky and dark out from the shadows that clung to the back of the hangar.

"McGee, pause it." The Director stared at the frozen image. "DiNozzo, David – you saw this?"

"Yes," Ziva answered. "Approximately 2 ½ metres tall and a metre broad. I could not guess the weight, but when it approached, the ground – shook."

DiNozzo studied the image thoughtfully. "You know what it reminds me of? Hellboy – without the giant hand, cigar and the scrawly things on his skin."

The Director pointed at the screen. "So, that could have been someone in a costume?" His voice was even and not accusative.

Tony shook his head. "No. It's like Ziva said – when it walked you could feel the ground shake; not much, probably a three on the Richter scale. And it stank. Is there a Richter scale for smells 'cause this was a good 9.0."

Ziva nodded. "It was foul. I don't know that I've ever smelled anything as terrible – except death."

The Director stepped back a pace and folded his arms over his chest again. "McGee, let's see the rest."

McGee restarted the video.

The beast roared – for a second it sounded like the speakers might blow – and then it charged. Its movements were slow, at first, but quickly it's pace increased.

Summers turned and knelt, balancing on the balls of her feet. Her lips were moving, enunciating words they couldn't hear. Holding her axe in her right hand, she drew a dagger from her boot with her left and grinned.

Events immediately following were a blur – literally. The man who had disappeared off-screen reappeared holding a steel pipe cocked over his shoulder. The beast, almost on top of Summers, had stretched out one massive hand to grab her; its other hand, curled into a fist, was drawing back in preparation for a blow.

Summers lips curled into a smile. She shifted slightly, and then,

sprang up and back, tumbling gracefully and landing behind the beast.

The beast grunted and stumbled but its momentum and mass carried it forward. The man, realising too late that his target was gone, tried to pull his swing but, instead, struck the beast's right knee with enough force to knock the beast off its balance and send beast and man, in a grunting, snarling tangle, on to the ground.

Summers leapt on to the beast's back and pulled free the dagger she had embedded there, which earned her a thick bony elbow in the ribs; she flew 20' and landed on her back. The man was up first and charging as she pushed herself up and took a pained breath; whatever his intentions, they were cut short when she flipped the axe in her hand and drove the sharpened end of the haft into his chest. Dust fell over her. She coughed, set the axe down and rose to meet the beast. She flipped the dagger to her right hand and charged – it looked like she was laughing. 10' from the beast she leapt and drove her heels into its nose. A glancing blow from the beast's fist knocked her askew and she landed awkwardly on her left knee and right foot. Like most creatures – with noses – the blow was not only painful but disorienting. Summers used that to her advantage: ducking another wildly swinging limb, she leapt on the beast's back, grabbed its head in her left hand, crossed her calves over its shoulders and pulled the dagger's blade across its throat. Even after the beast had fallen on its back, crushing her against the concrete, she continued to draw the blade across its throat; skin, muscles, tendons, arteries: split. Blood soaked the beast and Summers' sides and thighs..

Finally, it was still – the neck had been cut to the enormous spine. Summers wiggled from beneath the corpse and rose to her feet. As she wiped the blade of her dagger on the remains of her shirt, her shoulders wiggled, her head bobbed and her lips moved mimicking words they couldn't understand.

"Pause it, McGee." The image froze. The Director glanced at Gibbs; their eyes met briefly and returned to the image frozen on the plasma.

Tony stretched in his chair. "That was much better live. Still, not bad; the cinematography could use some work, though."

Ziva glared. "Do you think you could have done better? You couldn't open your eyes when it was over."

A glare from Gibbs silenced both of them.

"McGee, go back a few seconds . . . there. Zoom in on her face and run it." McGee did as Gibbs had asked. Gibbs eyes narrowed. "What's she saying? Anyone?"

Abby answered. "Um, she's not speaking she's singing – lip synching really since there's, you know, no sound. I'm pretty sure the song she's singing is 'Under Pressure'."

Gibbs' grey brows rose a little. "She's singing."

Abby nodded.

"I saw her remove ear buds when she came out," Ziva added. She pointed at the screen. "If you look, you can see the wires running under her vest."

Gibbs looked at the screen for a second and shook his head. "Oh-kay. What happened after? DiNozzo?"

Tony shifted uncomfortably. "Ah, Ziva should explain; like she said, I had my eyes closed."

Gibbs turned to Ziva. "Well . . ."

Ziva explained the aftermath – though not without interruptions.

McGee: What kind of vest was she wearing?

Ziva: I did not recognize the design, but it was superior to anything I've seen – based on Summers condition after the fight.

Ducky: She said that she had been shot before? Were there any indications of previous injuries?

Ziva: The were scars on her hands and arms and three sets of scars on her neck above the carotid artery, perhaps 3 centimetres apart and a centimetre in diameter.

Abby: Did she have any tats? You know, like something you might get in the military or a psycho ward?

Ziva: She did. Two lines of script on the inside of her right wrist, though I could not understand the language and a design on her upper arm that looked like a DNA – string? The squiggly lines with lines and dots connecting them – do you know what I mean?

Abby: Oh, a DNA helix. Huh, that's strange.

Director Vance: Commander Paris showed you his ID?

Ziva: Yes. It looked authentic. He and his men didn't hide their association with Summers or their purpose there – which seemed to be cleaning up the mess. They did ask to see our ID's and to allow their medic to examine us quickly. They were concerned about Tony's pulse and some irregularities in his heart-

Tony: Just had to add that, didn't yeh, Ziva.

Ziva: - but the Commander said nothing threatening and they did not attempt to take the memory card from the camcorder, although, Miss Summers was aware that I had filmed her.

Ziva finished her account and picked up her coffee – lukewarm now, but it soothed some of the dryness in her throat.

Director Vance sat at the head of the table; everyone turned their chairs to face him. "All right. Let's try to sort some of this out. McGee, keep working on Summers."

McGee turned his head from his laptop. "I have some information already; I'm just waiting to hear back from a possible lead."

Vance nodded. "Alright, the rest of you follow up on what we've got: Mr. Tripp; Commander Paris; the hangar in Manassas. Miss Sciuto , see if you can ID any of the men Summers confronted in the hangar.

"Don't think I need to tell you that there's a connection here. Let's find it. I want to know everything there is to know about Summers and her purpose in Washington before we ask her to come in."

The Director stood. "Let's keep this to ourselves." Everyone present knew what he was implying. If certain other agencies or high ranking officials learned of their investigation, they would be shut down. Director Vance glanced at his watch. "It's 1:30 now; we'll meet back here at 4:00."

As they filed from the conference room, Ziva considered the card Summers had given to her.

_". . . in case you stumble on something . . ."_

If she gave the number on the card to McGee, he would most likely use it to track Summers and Summers had, essentially, warned them not to follow her. Ziva realised the hypocrisy considering Summers' activities for the past month. But after what she and Tony had witnessed earlier, she was inclined to keep the number to herself – for now. There was no sense in irritating Summers and losing whatever small potential they had for an amicable meeting in the future.

"Dammit."

"Forget something," McGee asked.

Ziva smiled briefly and shook her head. "It is nothing."

* * *

They were seated in the conference room again: coffees, laptops and folders in front of them.

Director Vance put his cup down and crossed his arms. "Alright, what do we have? McGee, why don't you start."

McGee pecked at his keyboard for a minute; images popped up on the plasma: the photo of Buffy Summers from her DOD file and the newspaper clippings he and Tony had looked at earlier.

"Buffy Anne Summers; 28 years old; born January 19th, 1981. Father: Hank Summers; lives in Spain with his second wife and their child. Mother: Joyce Summers; died, February 27th, 2001. Mr. Summers called me back an hour ago; he was the contact I was waiting to hear from. He said that the last contact he had with Miss Summers was Christmas '98, so he couldn't offer much but he did give me a phone number for Miss Summers' sister, Dawn.

"Summers moved here in April and stayed in a studio apartment until the end of September. She currently lives at 7201 16th Street Northeast. The house is owned by a security company: _Guardians International_. They're based in Vancouver. All the utilities and amenities are paid by them as well."

Director Vance turned from the screen and looked at McGee. "That's it? There were no other references to her – criminal records, employment records?"

McGee shook his head. "Nothing." He looked down at his laptop again and began typing. "I did," two new files popped up on the plasma, "find these."

Two images side by side: the first a DC drivers licence, the second a statement from the _Bank of America_ showing a balance of $43,000.

"Whatever she does, she makes a half decent wage. She's had monthly deposits of $4,000 since she moved here and doesn't seem to spend much of it."

Gibbs looked at McGee. "Who makes the deposits?"

"Uh, the same company that owns the house she's living in – _Guardians International_."

Gibbs nodded and pointed at the at the plasma. "Can you pull up the news footage." McGee did as requested. "She's got connections."

"Looks that way," McGee said. "Something of a hero too."

Ziva was staring at the photo of Buffy and the Secretary of Defence. "McGee, are you sure that's the same woman?"

McGee nodded and magnified the image so it filled the screen. "Why?"

"No reason. It's a remarkable difference to the woman I met, that's all." Ziva turned away from the plasma and opened the folder on the table in front of her. "Tony and I followed up on James Tripp and Commander Paris. There was very little information to be found. James Tripp joined the Army at 20. 1 year later, he went into Army Ranger Training. He was deployed to Afghanistan and remained there for two years. He returned to the States and continued training with the Army Rangers and then went to Iraq. I can find no activity after his arrival in Iraq. 2 Years ago his father died and Tripp came to Washington to manage his father's bar – the Black and Tan. He has been in Washington since. 6 months ago he began working for Daniel Thorpe, the Director of DARPA; what he does for the agency is unknown."

Frowns and narrowed brows greeted her.

Tony snatched the folder from Ziva and turned to the next printed page. "It gets better. Commander Tomas Paris: enlisted in the Army when he was eighteen; deployed to the Gulf and spent time in Bosnia and Somalia which earned him a Silver Star, Purple Heart and a Legion of Merit. He was recruited by Special Op's and given command of an A-Team." He looked up from the page. "Hey, has anyone seen the movie yet, 'cause I was thinking we should . . . go." Twin stares, bordering on glares, strongly suggested that he return to business. "No idea what he did after that 'cause – surprise, surprise – the records are classified. But – you'll like this – 6 months ago Commander Paris and a team he picked, started working for Director Thorpe."

Tony leaned back in his chair and waited for the connection to be made.

"Seems like DARPA did a lot of recruiting at the end of April," Vance said, perfunctorily.

Gibbs looked at the Director. "Since when does DARPA need top level Military support?"

Vance shook his head. "Didn't think they did. They don't participate directly in military operations. Know anyone in the department who might be able to shed some light?"

Gibbs rubbed his chin. "Yeah, I might."

Abby raised her hand. "Um, I have some more to add to the weird list."

Vance looked at her and motioned with his hand. "Go ahead, Miss Sciuto."

"McGee, can you load the files I sent you?" A moment later three images appeared on the plasma. "I went through the tape again . . . and again and again . . . I managed to ID these three: on the left is Seaman David Mullins; he's one of the sailors who went missing from San Diego three weeks ago. In the middle is James S. Harrell; Canadian; lived in Toronto. He was last seen catching a cab from the place he worked at – _KPMG International_ – 2 years ago. Last, Paul Jeffers. He worked at _MFG Inductors_ in Buffalo. He was last seen 8 months ago, with some friends outside a pool hall. Oh, and Seaman Mullins was one of the armed men in the video – the first one the crazy chick killed."

"How do a man from Toronto, missing for 2 years, and a man from Buffalo, missing 8 months, end up in a hangar in Manassas with our missing Sailor?" Gibbs mood was deteriorating; the evidence was in the edge within his eyes and the sharpness of his tone. "What about the hangar? Do we know why those men were there?"

Ziva shook her head. "I tried to speak to someone but they told me that their clients' information was privileged. McGee has called for a warrant."

"We'll have it by tomorrow," McGee confirmed.

Gibbs responded with an abrupt nod.

McGee glanced at the Director and Gibbs. "Uh, should we call Miss Summers' sister?"

"What do you know about her, McGee," Gibbs asked.

"Well, she's married – she's Mrs. Harris now; Mr. and Mrs. Harris live in Maine . . . that's about all I have."

Director Vance pulled the phone on the table closer. "I'll call; I'll leave it on speakerphone but let's not overwhelm her with questions. McGee?"

McGee gave him the number. Vance dialled.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Mrs. Harris?"

"This is me."

"Hello, Mrs. Harris, this is Leon Vance, I'm the Director of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. I wondered if you had a minute or two to talk about your sister, Buffy Summers?"

A short sigh. "Oh-kay. So, I'm guessing she's either dead, in the hospital dying or in jail for doing one or the other to a bunch of sailors?"

"No, she's fine and not in jail-"

"Which leaves the family curse: someone around her was hurt 'cause she decided to lead them on another one of her suicide missions and then she took off 'cause she couldn't deal?"

No one at the table missed the bitterness in Dawn Harris' voice.

"No, that's not why we're calling. We're actually more interested in what your sister does for a living."

Silence.

Vance continued. "Four weeks ago Navy personnel started to go missing: the first week, two disappeared; the second week the numbers reached double digits. I've had agents investigating but until a few days ago we'd come to a dead end. And then one of my agents, Agent David, encountered your sister in _Rock Creek Cemetery_-"

"Of course-"

"And later in a bar. She told Agent David that she worked with the American government, though not in what capacity, and had been keeping an eye on things."

"Yeah, heard she was- sorry, can you hang on a sec'? My daughter's trying to wrestle with our dog. Sometimes I think she's a little too much like my sister. I'll put you on speaker phone – don't worry, I don't have a bunch of people listening in."

A click and the noise from the phone's speaker became more hollow. They could hear Mrs. Harris, a little distant but still understandable.

"Tara, sweetie, Snoopy's not a vampire and you're not a Slayer – and you never will be if I have anything to say about it. C'mon, give mommy the pencil . . . that's my girl.

"Come on Snoopy, outside. Good boy.

"Let's go say, 'hi,' to the nice government agents. Can you say, 'hi,' Tara?"

"Hee."

"Still working on it. Sorry, where were we? Oh, right – my sister; which reminds me, I have to buy a lottery ticket tonight 'cause the odds of my sister ever working for the U.S. government were probably ten times as long as winning the jackpot. They've screwed her twice and the last time," Dawn Summers' voice became sad, "the last time was bad . . . Anyway, what do you need from me, 'cause it sounds like you've already talked to her."

"We were hoping you might have some idea of what she does for a living."

"Uh huh. Why?"

"Two agents saw your sister having a confrontation with some men; she left an impression."

"_Men_, huh? I kinda doubt that you _somehow_ found my number and called me because my sister kicked some ass. And since you already told me she's not in jail, hurt or dead, that means there's something you're not telling me, probably 'cause you don't want to sound like you're a bunch of insano's."

Dr. Mallard looked at the Director. "May I?" The Director nodded. "Mrs. Harris, the men your sister fought had pronounced ridges on their foreheads and yellow eyes. They were abnormally strong and fast and when they were killed they turned to dust."

"Alright, here's the thing: since it really doesn't matter whether you think I should be committed or not – mostly 'cause I'm very well protected – I'll tell you. They're vampires. My sister's a Slayer; her job is to kill vampires and other supernatural threats. If you want to know more, you should talk to her.

"I have to go. Little advice – you might wanna make sure that your life insurance is paid, and write a will if you don't have one; people around my sister tend to die or lose body parts. Good luck."

"Thank you-"

'Click'

They all stared at the phone. Director Vance terminated the connection and leaned back. He looked disconcerted and thoughtful.

"What's the next move," Gibbs asked.

"Seems to me there is only one," Vance answered.

* * *

Gibbs waited for the others to leave and turned to Vance. "We need to speak to Summers; she's connected to this in more ways than one and I'm sick of running into road blocks. We still have 19 Sailors and Marines unaccounted for – I think their families would like some answers."

"Bring her in tomorrow. Let's see what she _can_ talk about. Take Ziva – she's had contact and she'll have a better read on Summers." Vance stood and pushed his chair back under the table. "This is an invitation, Gibbs – try to keep it friendly."

"So, I guess taking her to interrogation is out?" Vance answered with a steady stare. "Hey – I can be friendly; until she starts lying to me."

Gibbs turned and left the room. As he was walking down the hall, his phone rang. He switched his coffee to his left hand, pulled his phone from his pocket and answered.

"Gibbs."

"Agent Gibbs, this is Officer Carson of the Metro PD. I'm out at _Winkler's Safe Store_ on New York Ave. The owner called in about a possible body dump; said he was checking the units when he smelled something pretty ripe in one of them. My partner and I checked it out and . . . well, I've smelled human death before. Found what we were looking for when we opened the unit up . . . found a few extras as well; pretty sure one of them's a Marine, Agent Gibbs."

"Yeah, how could you tell?"

"Oh, we didn't go in or anything – we know the drill. There's four of them and they're laid out on cots. You ask me, they all look military but one of them has a U.S.M.C tattoo on his shoulder."

Gibbs began walking quickly.

Officer Carson continued to speak. "Something I don't understand though is why they're all hooked up to IVs."

Gibbs was on the stairs leading down to the bullpen; he could see DiNozzo and McGee sauntering toward the elevator, talking animatedly. Ziva was at her desk frowning at her monitor.

"Address?" Carson recited it. "Thanks for the tip. Who'd you get my number from?"

"Detective Hanley. She said that you would want to know directly if any of us found something that might be related to your missing Sailors."

"We're leaving now." Gibbs closed his phone with a snap. "DiNozzo! McGee!" He saw their shoulders slump. "Think we got a lead on our missing person's case." McGee and DiNozzo turned, expressing a little more enthusiasm. "Cops found a marine and three other possible vic's in a storage locker on New York Ave." He leaned over DiNozzo's desk, scribbled the address on a post it and handed it to McGee. "Call Ducky."

Ziva stepped from around her desk, buttoning her coat one-handed; she held her free hand out. "I will get the van." DiNozzo tossed her the keys.

Gibbs was already on his way to the elevator. He called out over his shoulder, "DiNozzo, with me. Ziva, you and McGee follow in the van."

Tony grabbed his pack and hurried after Gibbs.

McGee joined Ziva, address in hand. Ziva held her hand out. "Can I have that, McGee?" He hesitated for a moment before he handed it to her. "I have to make a quick call."

Ziva took her phone from her pocket and opened it. She entered the number on the card Summers had given to her and lifted the phone to her ear.

McGee glanced at Ziva as they walked but refrained from asking questions. By process of elimination there could only be a few people she would call – especially now.

* * *

**Buffy Summers' Residence, 7201 16th Street Northwest, Washington**

Buffy picked up the phone on the second ring.

'What was I thinking? Buffy and naps never work out well.'

She shook off the nightmare induced paralysis and managed a groggy, "Hello?"

"Miss Summers?"

She recognized the voice and made the transition from groggy to alert in a second. "Agent David . . . What's up?"

"We may have a lead on our missing person's case . . ." Agent David filled her in on the little she knew. "We're leaving now. Gibbs and DiNozzo have left already; McGee and I are following in the van."

Buffy didn't need to look through her living room windows to know that day was transitioning to night.

Ziva continued. "I would not have called but something feels . . . off about this. We have had no leads in four weeks and now we have a dead man missing from his grave and a marine discovered in a storage locker?"

Buffy got up from the couch and went to her computer. "I'm glad you did . . . and you're right – it does sound like too much of a coinky-dink. What's the address?" Ziva gave it to her. She tucked the phone under her chin and typed her address and the address of the storage facility into the 'Get Directions' text boxes on the Google Maps page for Washington DC. "Ok, it'll take me 15 minutes, less if I speed and it'll take you . . . Crap. You guys are leaving, like, now?"

"McGee and I are, yes. DiNozzo and Gibbs have already left."

"What about your ME? Can you stall him?"

"I will convince him to wait."

Buffy hurried to the front door and grabbed her coat and boots. "Alright. Guess you guys should catch up. Agent David? Be careful? Something about this isn't of the sense making."

"I am always careful," Ziva replied.

Buffy ended the call and stuck her right foot in her boot while pulling the left sleeve of her leather jacket on and trying to reach for the scythe.

She really hated Slayer dreams.

* * *

**Winkler's Safe Store, New York Ave, Washington**

Gibbs and DiNozzo pulled into _Winkler's Safe Store_ and parked in front of the dark office. Tony opened his door and got out; closed the door and leaned back against the car. Gibbs joined him.

"Weren't there supposed to be cops here," Tony asked.

"Yeah. If they're doing their job, they're with our Marine. Come on."

Tony was slow to follow. The sun was touching the horizon, which meant they had half an hour – probably less – of daylight left. And there were no sounds: no birds; insects; squirrels; communications over police radios. He could hear the traffic on New York Ave and the grind of steel against steel as a train slowed in the rail yard north of the highway.

"DiNozzo! You coming?" Gibbs had walked down the rows of storage units and found the cop car; he had neither seen nor heard the cops yet, though.

Tony reluctantly pushed away from the car, straightened his jacket and walked toward Gibbs. His stomach did a little flip with every step. When he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle slowing – barely – at the entrance, he nearly tripped. He looked over his shoulder and saw the NCIS van pulling in; apparently, so had Gibbs.

"Show 'em where to go, Tony. I'll meet you there."

Relief and apprehension: relief because he still couldn't find the eject button to pop the DVD – favourite death scenes through the ages – from his brain and this bought him a little time; apprehension because Gibbs, fearless leader and Marine was heading to the crime scene by himself.

He waited for the van and when it arrived, Ziva at the wheel and a terrified looking McGee in the passenger seat, he directed her to the drive between the two rows of storage units that Gibbs had disappeared down. The van continued and stopped a few doors from the open unit, blocking the view of the Metro patrol car. He managed a little enthusiasm and hurried to catch up.

He heard Gibbs and frowned.

"They're dead. So's the radio."

He moved faster; passed the van. Gibbs was leaning into the patrol car through the open passenger window; he had a Styrofoam cup in his hand. McGee had his cell phone out ; he was frowning at it – the same frown he wore whenever technology (somehow) failed him. Tony couldn't see Ziva.

"Boss, didn't you talk to one of these guys 15 minutes ago?"

Gibbs pulled his head out of the car. "Yeah, Tony, I did."

Ziva stepped out of the open storage unit and lowered her hand from her nose and mouth. As she stirred the cool air with her quick strides, the reek she had been protecting herself from wafted passed Tony's face: the bitter smell of human decay made his nose wrinkle and his eyes burn.

Ziva joined them; she looked grim. "The body on the ground is a few days old. The victim's throat has been torn open but there is no blood."

Gibbs frowned at the open door of the unit. "Body dump. What about the others?"

"The others look perfectly healthy, despite the fact that none of them are breathing. I do not understand why they are hooked up to IVs of blood, though."

Tony had a maddening urge to jump in the van and start it. Gibbs seemed to be picking up on the eerie vibe as well though his unease was probably conveyed through a mild case of indigestion.

"McGee, did you make the call?"

McGee looked dumbfounded. "I'm not getting a signal. I don't get . . . unless . . ."

Gibbs looked at him, waiting for the inevitable explanation. "Yeah, McGee?"

"Well, someone could be blocking the signal."

Gibbs pulled off his latex gloves and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. "Everyone in the van – now!"

DiNozzo loped to the driver's door; Gibbs and McGee were going for the passenger door; which left . . .

Tony turned. Ziva had her gun out and aimed at someone in the storage unit; her mouth was just opening to speak when she was struck by a blur.

"Ziva!" Tony drew his gun and backed up. He heard a gunshot from the other side of the van followed by a snarl that froze him in place. Probably a good thing as two more men and a woman stepped out from the unit; their muddy yellow eyes glowed in the gathering darkness. The woman saw him and snarled like a jungle cat. Instinct kicked in with a rush of adrenaline that nearly stopped his heart. He raised his gun and fired.

* * *

**North Capitol Street, Northwest, Heading South**

Buffy drove the bike one-handed; with her other, she typed a number into her cell and raised it to her ear. She focused a little more on her hearing until the electronic tones sounded loud. She kept her eyes on the road. She was already breaking the speed limit and as soon as she passed the idiot ahead of her, who couldn't seem to decide on a lane, she would push the bike to its limits.

Finally, a voice spoke over the phone.

"Hi Paul, it's Buffy – hang on a sec'."

Buffy waited for the Grand Caravan in front of her to swerve toward the right and sped past in the left lane.

"Hi. I'm heading to _Winkler's Safe Store_ on New York Ave. A cop called NCIS and gave them a tip about a dead Marine. I'm heading to meet the team . . . Yeah, that's what I thought; just seems too perfect. You didn't get a call about this, did you? . . . Shit. I think I fucked up . . . I should've asked to meet them earlier, you know? Explain what was going on? Guess someone figured NCIS was getting too close to – something. Oh, can you call the hospital for me, just in case? . . . Yeah, Dr. Preston, if she's available . . . I'm not being 'fussy', I just like her bedside manner better than Dr. Reid. You should probably give Commander Paris a heads up too. Back up is always of the good . . . Thanks, Paul. I'll be in touch."

She ended the call, dropped the phone into her inside jacket pocket and twisted the throttle.

* * *

**Winkler's Safe Store, New York Ave, Washington**

She saw the car in front of the office first. She slowed down as she pulled into the lot and pulled her helmet off. She heard Tony shout out, "Ziva," and then gunshots. She sped up, following the sounds, not easy to do as they echoed off of the metal walls and roofs of the storage units. There, the van. She turned sharply and accelerated. The action seemed to be focused on the passenger side of the van; an unknown man was creeping around the back – his stride was predatory. The man was tall, had a heavy physique and shaved head. He turned to stare at her – his yellow eyes confirmed what she had already guessed. She drove straight at him, drew her helmet behind her shoulder and whipped it at his head. His arm rose to bat it away. That was kind of how she'd been hoping he would react. Just before the front wheel of her bike hit the back of the van, she pushed herself up from the seat, tumbled back on to the pavement and rolled.

The vampire didn't have time to evade the collision completely. When the front tire hit, the back tire jumped and the back end of the bike twisted and flipped striking the vampire's thighs. He pushed the bike away easily but it allowed her enough time to jump to her feet and swing the scythe over shoulder.

With every step – a blur – the killer was set free.

The vampire was much faster than the young ones normally were. Even hampered by the damage to his thighs he was almost fast enough to shift his body to the side so that the sharpened tip of the scythe would miss his heart as it pierced his flesh. She was faster still. As his body disintegrated, she whipped around the corner of the van. The NCIS agents had created a bottleneck between the van and the storage units. They covered each other as they fired on their opponents; they were hitting their targets – head and heart – but their bullets weren't made from wood or frozen holy water, and the vampires only fell back a step. Even as she glanced at another, smaller, vampire who had taken a round in the forehead, she could see the wound beginning to heal.

She heard a thump on the roof of the van followed by another as a vampire dropped to the pavement between her and the nearest NCIS agent – McGee.

McGee spun, his right arm extended, gun raised . . . He pulled back on the trigger . . .

Buffy leapt forward . . . the scythe's blade arched toward the vamps exposed neck . . . connected . . .

McGee fired and watched in amazement as the vampire turned to dust . . . And then he saw Buffy . . .

Buffy felt the bullet penetrate her shoulder. She bit her bottom lip hard; she bit back the pain savagely. In microseconds, she assessed the situation:

McGee was lowering his gun.

Gibbs was on one knee, his gun was on the ground. A vampire was crushing his wrist.

Ziva was firing on a second vampire who was lunging at DiNozzo.

And DiNozzo was leaning against the passenger door of the van wiping blood from his face.

Buffy took two quick strides forward and jumped; she flipped, landed as close to Gibbs as she could and took the offending vamp's forearm off with the scythe. As she turned, she shifted her weight to her left foot and drove the sharpened end of the scythe into the back of the vampire reaching up to grab DiNozzo's throat . . . she arrested her thrust a few inches from DiNozzo's left side – the vampire was gone.

"What the hell!"

These vampires were far too quick; their motions, too fluid, too . . . now was not the time. The vamp she'd missed had struck back with an iron bar. Buffy tried to roll shoulder to avoid having her humerus crushed. A micro second before the bar hit, she heard a gunshot and the vampire staggered. The weakened blow still added new screaming agonies in her shoulder. She answered with a snarl, not unlike the sound DiNozzo had heard a few moments ago, and steadied herself. She found her attacker, who now had Ziva by the throat; the vamps head snapped down. Teeth pierced flesh.

Buffy swung the scythe at the vampire who, despite his missing forearm, was attacking Gibbs. The vamp disintegrated mid kick. She flipped the scythe and drove the tip of the wooden haft into the vampire holding Ziva against the sliding metal door; it pierced the vampire's side between the fourth and fifth rib and impaled the dead heart.

Buffy grabbed Ziva with her left hand and managed to lower her quickly to the ground before the pain in her shoulder flared. She pulled the scythe's strap over her shoulder and knelt. Something on the pavement caught her eye; she scooped it up and shoved it into her pocket. Took a deep breath and lifted Ziva in her arms.

She could hear metal doors sliding open; feel the presence of additional vampires left and right. She turned, facing Gibbs, DiNozzo and McGee.

"Get in the van!"


	3. The Five Foot Three Harbinger Of Doom

It's not the end of the world,  
but you can see it from there.

Pierre Elliot Trudeau

**October 22nd, 2009**

Buffy braced herself as DiNozzo backed the van down the drive at a speed that would be scary in a car. When the back corner of the van bounced off of a storage unit door and again off the brick wall separating two units, she swore, clenched her teeth and closed her eyes. Through the pain radiating in her shoulder, she heard Agent Gibbs echo her unspoken sentiments.

"Dammit, DiNozzo, watch where you're going!"

DiNozzo slowed down enough to keep the van in control. When he reached the end of the drive he stopped abruptly, put the van in drive and accelerated toward the open gate.

Buffy opened her eyes and turned her head. McGee had his arm around Agent David; his hand was pressed tightly against her bloody neck. With his free hand, he was pulling open the drawers in the back of the van and slamming them shut again.

"Dammit!"

"Agent McGee, I can take her; makes more sense since I don't know where anything is."

The look in McGee's eyes was suspicious for a moment but he consented. "Thanks"

It was difficult in the tight quarters but they managed to rearrange themselves so that Buffy was sitting where McGee had been. She put her functioning arm around Ziva and pressed her hand against the wound on her neck. McGee continued his search and found the first aid supplies. Buffy closed her eyes. She wondered why . . . she could hear . . . sirens . . .

_"You think you can just do that to me? You think I'd let you get away with that? Think again!"_

_There's a hand in her chest squeezing her heart._

_There's a blue sky_

_and darkness . . ._

_blue sky_

_and darkness . . ._

_as her eyelids flutter like butterfly wings._

_It's ok, really, dying – again._

_It's not suicide, so those rules . . . She remembers something about rules . . . dying rules. She didn't __break them. She can go back to feel the utter contentment, the languid bliss. Maybe. 'Cause there's other rules too and she's not sure how her behaviour of the last 202 days figures on the whole balance of the soul_

_but_

_It's ok, really, dying – again._

_'Cause she wrote a will. Not a legal one but she's hoping that her sister and friends comply with her wishes anyway. In the will she included one very, very, important clause:_

_As soon as they're done dissecting me, I want to be cremated and I want my ashes sprinkled on the ocean at sunrise._

_Who knows, maybe she'll come back as a fish; fish have pretty boring lives. Or maybe a-_

"Miss Summers?"

Huh, god sounds young; polite too. She's really gonna have to have a talk about the 'Miss Summers' thing though.

"Uh, Miss Summers?"

Buffy's eyes opened. For a moment, her body froze; she didn't blink, she didn't breathe. Her senses roared.

DiNozzo's heartbeat – off kilter again. Gibbs' breaths – short but controlled. The brief sticky smack of McGee's lips, parting to speak. The rich, rich, sweet and salty, coppery aroma of Ziva's blood; her pulse, faint but steady beneath skin now soft.

The bitter tang of her own tainted blood.

Quickly and methodically, she turned the dials down on her senses until the input was acceptable.

She wasn't surprised that she'd lost control: pain, exhaustion and blood loss had weakened her and for a moment, she'd allowed herself to drift – she couldn't afford to drift. She blinked a few times and acknowledged McGee with a weak but honest smile.

"Sorry. What did you need?"

McGee handed her a roll of surgical tape. With a little effort, she tore off a few long strips and hung them from her fingers. McGee pressed a thick rectangle of gauze to Ziva's wound and held it tight while Buffy applied the tape to hold it in place. Ziva's breathing was slow and shallow but it was, at least, steady. McGee tried to keep his focus on her breaths, as if, by acknowledging her continued survival, she would continue to survive. It was difficult though; the drone of the van and the conversation in the front were distracting.

"Where am I going?" Tony sounded dazed. McGee was surprised that he was driving and not Gibbs, and then he remembered – Gibbs' wrist was broken.

Buffy stirred beside Ziva. She hissed as she turned to crawl up to the front of the van. "Washington Hospital Center."

Gibbs turned and looked down at her. "Why there?"

"It's the only place I can be treated. There are doctors there who know what's what. They can treat Ziva better there too. She'll need blood tests and drugs to make sure she doesn't catch something."

Gibbs looked like he might debate the choice; he didn't. "DiNozzo?"

"Right. I think I remember how to get there."

"The ER's in the northwest. You got a siren on this thing?" Buffy's eyelids fluttered. She took a long breath and forced herself to stay focused.

Tony glanced quickly at Buffy; he looked concerned. "How is she?"

"She'll be fine. I might pass out in a minute though. If I do – don't touch me. I don't react well to people touching me when I'm unconscious and in pain."

McGee's frown was matched by Gibbs'.

"What's the problem," Gibbs asked.

"Took a bullet in the shoulder. I'm kinda bleeding, a little." Buffy shuffled back to her place beside Ziva and leaned back.

McGee gathered some more gauze and crouched on the other side of Ziva, facing Buffy. "Can you get your jacket off?"

Buffy wiggled and hissed – and swore a few times – but, after freeing her right arm, she managed to remove her left arm from her jacket. McGee handed her a thick layer of gauze; she took it and pressed it against her wound. Most of the blood she'd lost had soaked into her shirt and the lining of her jacket. Blood still flowed from the wound but the volume had decreased as her healing accelerated the coagulation.

"Thanks, Agent McGee."

McGee nodded and sat down again.

Buffy pulled her jacket out from behind her with her free hand and patted the pockets. "Shit." At some point during the fight, she had lost her phone. She checked the inside pockets, though she was pretty sure they would be empty as well; except for her wallet, they were. "And again I say 'shit'."

McGee leaned forward and turned to face her. "What's the problem?"

"Lost my phone and I really need to make two phone calls before we get to the hospital."

McGee fished in the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone. He opened it, turned it on and passed it to her. Buffy smiled weakly.

"You're officially my favourite NCIS agent. Thank you, Agent McGee."

The first number she called was local.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Paul. I need a few things."

"What happened?"

"Remember my suspicion that NCIS was walking into a trap? More like an execution. I caught up to them before the four vamps from the unit they went to look at could make them snackables but three of the agents were hurt. We got out before the other vamps could join in the merry making."

"How many more?"

"15 or 20? Didn't have time to ask for a head count. We're on our way to the Washington Hospital Center – you called, right?"

"Yes. Dr. Preston is waiting. How are you?"

"Peachy . . . Ok, more like a peach that's been rolled down the stairs in the Empire State Building but I'll be fine. I need Commander Paris and his team to go to the Storage unit and keep their eyes out for any activity. I'm thinking they bailed quick but I don't want to take a chance that they decided to stop for takeout first. And let them know that these vamps are different; they're a lot faster and stronger than younger vamps usually are – more organized to. I don't want them taking chances – I'll play the 'this is an order' card if I have to."

"I'll call him. What else?"

"Tomorrow, if Commander Paris says it's ok, I want Courtney's team – sorry, Agent Krieger's team – to do the evidence thingy. Ask Agent Krieger to send whatever info they find to, um, Abby Sciuto at NCIS; and if she asks for anything, make sure she gets it."

"Done. How are you really, Buffy?"

"Got shot in the shoulder. It's not serious just painful."

"Anyone else be in over night?"

"Two definitely, maybe three."

"I'll have guards posted on your floor. Do you think this is the 'beginning' you were waiting for?"

"Really don't want to think about that right now – but, yeah, I do."

"I'll let you go. Don't worry about the CGR, I'll deal with them in the morning. Get better, Buffy."

"Thanks, Paul. Ciao."

Buffy ended the call and entered another, longer number. The call was answered on the second ring.

"Good Evening, Guardians International, Rebekah speaking – how can I help you?"

"Hi, Rebekah. I need a connection."

"Name please?"

"Buffy Anne Summers."

"Status?"

"Ronin." She really needed to talk to the Guardians about allowing Mr. Wells the authority to assign security clearances.

"Password please."

Buffy typed a 12 digit number into the phone; she wasn't sure how it worked but the number was communicated and verified at the other end.

"Hi, Ma'am. I'll put you through."

"Thanks, Rebekah."

Buffy heard a _click _followed by another and then a familiar voice.

"Hello, Buffy."

Despite the pain and fatigue, Buffy smiled. "Hi, Shannon. 'Kinda hoping you'd be on duty tonight. I have to make this quick, we should be getting to the hospital soon. I lost my phone and I need to make sure it's toast; it's possible that a vamp found it and . . . you know – don't want him looking up my favourite pizza place and snacking on the owner."

"Are you ok?" Shannon sounded sincerely concerned.

"I'll be fine - seriously. So no calling everyone and telling them, 'k?"

"They worry about you, you know . . . We worry about you, I mean."

"It's all good – mostly. Looks like we're here. Can you send me a new phone? I'll try extra hard not to lose or break this one."

"I'm just filling out the rec'."

"Thanks, Shannon. Gotta go."

"Take care, Ma'am. And call me when you get out."

Buffy ended the call, turned off the phone and closed it. "Thanks, Agent McGee. Pretty sure I've got the record for the most company phones lost or totalled." She held the phone out to him; he nodded once and took it from her.

Gibbs turned in his seat to face the back and announced, "We're here."

* * *

**Washington Hospital Center**

Buffy and McGee entered the hospital and went to the admissions counter. The woman behind the counter was staring at her monitor and typing furiously. Behind her, a man and two women spoke together in the quiet, grave voices that usually indicated that someone had died or would soon be dead.

Buffy slumped against the counter. "Hi, could we-"

Without looking up, the nurse interrupted and said, "Just one sec'."

Buffy stared at the nurse and rapped her knuckles against the counter top. "I don't think I have 'a sec', unless you want me to bleed to death on your shiny floor."

The nurse's head snapped up. She saw Buffy and the bloody gauze she still held to her wound and stood quickly. "Gee, I'm so sorry. You shouldn't be on your feet; let me get-"

"Stop. I'm good – for now – but there's an NCIS agent outside who needs help, like, immediately."

The nurse nodded and hurried over to the doctor and nurses behind her; while she was getting help, Buffy turned to McGee.

"Might not see you for a while, so, could you do me a favour?"

McGee only caught the 'do me a favour'; maybe it was a cliché but he really did feel that his world had tipped off its axis. "What's the favour?"

"Keep your team at their desks. Tonight-"

"We were set up; I heard you talking on the phone. You know that if I try to tell Gibbs to sit at his desk he'll shoot me, right?"

Buffy frowned. "Yeah, I kinda get that vibe too. Guess I'll just have to-" She was interrupted by the appearance of the doctor and two nurses who had been talking in the hall behind the counter as they rolled a gurney into the Admissions room.

McGee glanced at Buffy and hesitated a moment before saying, "I should go."

Buffy smiled. "Go. And don't worry – the doctors here are really good."

McGee nodded and joined the doctor. "She's out here."

Buffy turned back to the desk and took her wallet out of her pocket. The nurse she had spoken to earlier had returned; she was hanging up the phone as Buffy opened her wallet. "Hi, again. There should be a doctor here waiting for me." She held up her D.O.D. ID.

The nurse glanced at the ID and started around the counter. "Yep, there is – just got the call. Dr. Preston asked me to wheel you up with your NCIS friends." She unfolded a wheelchair and wheeled it over to Buffy.

Buffy hesitated a moment, trying to understand how Dr. Preston would have known about the agents. Her ability to reason was fuzzy but she managed to make the connection to the call she'd placed to Paul; once again, he had anticipated what she had failed include in her conversations with him. She pushed herself back from the counter with her right arm; her muscles were trembling.

The nurse slid her arm around Buffy's back. "Now, put your arm over my shoulder . . . that's good. Here we go."

Buffy's butt hit the chair with a muffled thump. She dragged her feet up and rested her heels on the foot plates. "Wake me when we get there."

* * *

**October 24th, 2009, Washington Hospital Center, Room 301**

God, she hated hospitals. and every time she had the unfortunate opportunity to patronise one, as a patient or a visitor, she thought the same thing,

'God, I hate hospitals!'

Unfortunately, they were a necessary side effect of her life:

Buffy gets near dead, Buffy goes to the hospital.

She hated the atmosphere (too much poignancy beneath the false calm); the smells (blood, urine, sweat and fear); the sounds (beeps and blips and whispered condolences) and the food – oh, how she hated the food. It was a universal truth – ok, maybe not one of the BIG ones – that 'hospital' and 'food' were un-mixy. It was bad enough trying to eat while the other patients groaned and hacked and farted, but did what she was trying to eat have to be as appetizing as ground newspaper?

She looked at the open magazine lying on her lap; Emma Watson stared back from a 'People Tree' ad'.

"Good for her," Buffy muttered. "Bet those clothes taste better than the hospital food . . . 'specially with her in them." She closed the magazine abruptly. "God, when did I become such a perv'."

She was waiting for Dr. Preston to arrive so she could lose the shackles of the needles in her arm and get the hell out of bed – and right to a shower. The only reason she was in the damned hospital at all was because she hadn't been able to stay conscious long enough to get up and order a cab.

'Wait. Is that . . . possibly . . . yes.'

"Come in," she bellowed. She pushed herself up on the bed and straightened her blanket.

The door to her room opened and Dr. Preston stepped in followed by another woman.

Dr. Preston smiled. "Hello, Miss Summers. This is Dr. Watts. She's the latest addition to our staff."

Buffy grinned. "Lucky you. And it's Buffy, by the way. I figure Dr. Preston'll figure that out before she retires."

"I'm sorry. I've been around Administrators all morning."

"S'ok," Buffy responded, though her eyes were on Dr. Watts; the doctor seemed puzzled by something. "Go ahead and ask – I know you want to."

Dr. Watts head jerked to the right and her eyes met Buffy's. "Pardon?"

"You looked kinda confused so, I thought, maybe, you had a question?"

"I . . ." Dr. Watts smiled wryly. "Yes, I did. How did you know we were coming?"

"Heard you."

"How?"

"Be really cool if I could wiggle my ears right now, but you get the idea." Buffy tilted her head and looked curiously at Dr. Preston. "If Dr. Watts is going to be working on me – ever – you should tell her about my 'specialness'; you know: don't expose me to direct sunlight; don't feed me after midnight –especially hospital food; make sure I have coffee every few hours . . ."

Dr. Watts' confusion was directed at Dr. Preston; she rolled her eyes and stepped up to the side of Buffy's bed. "Buffy thinks she's funny. I'll tell you about her peculiarities later." She took a pair of surgical gloves from the box on the bedside table, pulled them on and lifted Buffy's arm. "Hold still for a moment."

While Dr. Preston worked on removing the needles from her arm, Buffy turned her attention back to Dr. Watts: she was young; unpretentiously pretty; possessed a quiet confidence beneath her nervousness and a brightness in her eyes that bespoke of intelligence, possibly genius: Buffy wondered how the hell she'd ended up here. "Dr. Watts, if you wanna ask something else, it's cool."

Dr. Watts face became animated. "It's Audrey, by the way, and, yes, I do have a few questions. I reviewed your medical history; it's remarkable."

Buffy smiled facetiously. "Glad my bad luck was an entertaining read."

Audrey's animated state fizzled; when she continued, she was more subdued. "I'm sorry, that _was_ rather macabre of me, wasn't it."

Buffy laughed. "S'ok, 'macabre' is my other middle name."

Audrey grinned. "I'll try to restrain myself. There were two cases that I was interested in. The first was . . . Sunnydale?" Buffy nodded. "Multiple breaks, head trauma, internal bleeding . . ."

"Yeah, fell from a scaffold and landed on a pile of broken cement."

"I'm surprised you didn't die."

Buffy answered prudently. "Yep, me too. Spent four months in the hospital recovering though."

There were some revelations that Buffy and the Guardians considered off limits; the biggest, as far as Buffy was concerned, was her death and resurrection. She didn't think that world was ready to hear that a woman of suspicious nature had been brought back from the dead by a witch – she could only imagine how the world's religious factions would react. So she lied.

Judging by the sympathetic expression on her face, Audrey seemed to accept the modified story. "Yes, I read that in the report; that must have been terrible. You did recover very quickly after you had awoken from your coma – extraordinarily fast, really."

Buffy answered blandly. "Just part of the package."

Audrey's head tilted a little to the side. "Is it? I have more reading to do, it seems. The other case that interested me was the attack in New York last year?"

"Yeah, that was unpleasant. Had my stomach sliced open and had to hold my insides, um, inside?" Audrey paled. "Not one of my better years.."

Dr. Preston lowered Buffy's arm, gathered the used gauze, needles and cotton balls and dropped them in a clear bag. She sealed the bag and wrote on the blank label in big black letters – 'INCINERATE'. She smiled briefly at Buffy before rejoining her colleague at the end of the bed. "I'll get your paperwork in order; as soon as you sign you can go home. I do recommend relaxing for a few days, at least until your arm is functioning properly."

"I will. All I really want is a shower, real food and a drink; not planning on going anywhere."

Dr. Preston looked relieved. "Good. Remember, though, you can't drink alcohol if you take your pain meds. And call me later, please, let me know how you are?"

Buffy smiled warmly; sometimes she missed being mothered. "I will."

Dr. Preston looked at Dr. Watts who had been listening to the exchange curiously. "Well, let's continue to the labs. I'll fill you in on procedures and security protocols while we're there."

Dr. Watts nodded and waved at Buffy. "It was nice to meet you and without sounding terrible, I hope we can talk again."

"Nice to meet you too, Audrey and if you ever want to grab a coffee . . . Bye, Wendy – and thanks."

Dr. Preston nodded once and touched Dr. Watts shoulder, indicating that they were leaving. "I'll talk to you tonight, Buffy."

* * *

A few seconds after her door closed it opened again, enough for Dr. Preston to pop her head in.

"You have a visitor; an NCIS agent – Timothy McGee?"

Buffy blinked. She hadn't expected to see anyone from NCIS, not yet; she figured they'd be recovering.

"Ok. Send him in." Wendy nodded and started closing the door. "Wait! How's my hair?" Wendy's eyebrows rose. "Never mind."

Quickly, she combed her fingers through her hair and wiped her mouth with a kleenex in case she had any crumbs of her ground newspaper lunch on her lips. She answered the tentative knock on her door with a less tentative,

"Come in, Agent McGee!"

McGee entered and closed the door behind him. He was dressed casually: jeans and long sleeved shirt (Hugo Boss); black leather shoes (Rockport, maybe?); and a charcoal gray wool coat (Burberry – and exactly how much did NCIS agents make, anyway?). McGee's cheeks were pink; his eyes bright; hair tousled. He held a Starbucks bag carefully in one hand; the fingers of the right were wrapped around a very big coffee. He paused by the door for a moment before approaching her.

"Hi. How are you?"

Buffy bit back her sarcastic response. She'd been practicing since she'd arrived in Washington; not that she always remembered, especially during her meetings with the CGR. "Peachy. Going home in a few hours."

"Oh. I, uh," McGee held out the bag. "I got you a coffee. I don't know what you take so I asked for cream and sugar; and there's a chocolate/chocolate chunk muffin in there as well. I figured most women like chocolate . . . though, the last time I said something like that I got in trouble."

Buffy smiled wide and accepted the offered bag. "You're a god. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I remember what the food's like. I spent a few months in the hospital when I was 16."

Buffy pulled the coffee out of the bag and put it on the table beside her. "What happened . . . sorry, none of my business."

"It's ok. I got hit by a bus." Buffy's eyes widened. "I was in a car . . ." McGee shrugged.

Buffy nodded and finished emptying the bag. "Yeah. I spent a few weeks in the Beth Israeli Medical Center in New York." Buffy pulled her shirt up to the bottom of her sternum. McGee stared at the long scar that ran from her right hip to the 7th rib on her left side. "They had to humpty dumpty me."

McGee's eyes remained riveted on Buffy's stomach even after she'd tugged down the hem of her shirt. "What . . . I probably don't want to know, do I?"

Buffy's smile was almost cruel. "Doesn't matter if you want to know anymore, you already do. You saw the video of the hangar in Manassas?" McGee nodded. "The thing that did this," she tapped her stomach, "was about three times the size of the thing on the video – the big one. Sometimes, doesn't matter how good you are, eventually you're gonna meet something that's stronger, or faster, or meaner – in this case, it was all three."

McGee pulled his eyes away from Buffy's stomach and took a sip of his coffee; funny how coffee could soothe the frazzled nerves – or was that 'ironic'? He shifted his stance and remembered why he'd come – one of the reasons. He wasn't sure what to say. He'd contemplated different approaches; had chosen his words carefully; but talking to himself in the car on the way to the hospital and actually uttering the speech he'd prepared to the woman lying on the bed, watching him with eyes that weren't quite human were decidedly different circumstances.

Buffy's expression softened. "I know why you're here, Agent McGee." She put her coffee down and picked up a small sealed jar from the table. She held the jar out and shook it; something within rattled against the glass. "I think this is yours."

McGee leaned closer, though he was pretty sure that he knew what was in the jar: the mangled 9 mm slug from his Sig. He couldn't look away. he felt cold; nauseous. This was the second time he'd been responsible for shooting an ally. Yes, he hadn't killed Miss Summers but that really wasn't the issue – he could have. Lieutenant John Benedict still haunted him, didn't matter if his bullet had been the fatal one or not.

"Agent McGee," Buffy's voice was soft, "It wasn't your fault, it was mine. I should know better than to jump blindly into a fight. It's just, sometimes, when I'm being all 'Action Girl' I don't think about things like friendly fire. Bet you didn't even know I was there until I dusted the vamp."

McGee had considered the sequence of events after the first 'vamp' had attacked Ziva and, honestly, he couldn't remember every detail, or even one specific detail, of the attack. It had been like watching a Jet Li movie through a fish tank; the changing positions of enemy and ally had blurred in his memories. He had watched the video of the fight in the hangar repeatedly at increasingly slower frame rates trying to understand how Summers had managed to predict her opponent's actions and act accordingly to either evade attacks directed at her or present her own offensive. He still had no idea, not even enough of a theory to speculate, how she had managed to successfully defeat eight men, two armed with automatic weapons, who had manifested the same unearthly qualities as the men and woman who attacked the team last Thursday. So, it was possible that his brain had only acknowledged Buffy's presence after it was too late.

Buffy waited to see if McGee would recognize that her injury had simply been an unfortunate and blameless accident. He didn't deserve to carry the guilt. "Not your fault," Buffy repeated. "You did the right thing. Didn't matter that bullets were useless; you guys acted quickly and managed to keep four psychopaths on steroids busy long enough for me to get there."

McGee wasn't sure that he hadn't, in some way, been at fault but considering the unusual circumstances he could at least agree that the shooting was unintentional and unavoidable.

McGee relaxed a little more. He pointed at the chair in the corner of the room. "Do you mind if I sit?"

Buffy managed to turn her reflexive look of surprise into a grin. "Please . . . You can keep my mind off of pretty English women." McGee raised an eyebrow; Buffy's cheeks flushed. "Never mind . . . So, how's Agent David?"

* * *

**Monday October 26th, 2009, NCIS**

"Hi, Ziva"

"How did you know that it wasn't Gibbs?"

"Gibbs doesn't smell like roses and sandalwood." Abby turned from the monitor she'd been staring at, leaned against the edge of the table and crossed her arms. "Don't know why the Director couldn't postpone this meeting. You guys should be resting."

Ziva rolled her eyes. "I am fine. Have you found anything?"

"If you're talking about the evidence from the storage locker – not so much. There wasn't a computer or files so still no idea who rented those units." Abby turned back to the computer and opened a file. "The toxicology report the FBI ran on the two policemen found palytoxin in their systems. They detected traces of the same toxin in the coffee cups they found in the car." Abby paused, looking perplexed. "It's really strange that someone would use poison, especially palytoxin. I mean, what if one of the officers had drunk . . . drank . . . drinked . . . what if one of the officers had started _drinking_ his coffee first? The other guy would've called in for assistance, right? And why didn't either of them call, or at least try – they were in the car, the radio was on, _and_ they both had cell phones on them."

Ziva frowned thoughtfully. Using poison certainly wasn't the method method of eliminating two targets quickly and without complications – it was inefficient, amateurish. A small calibre bullet from a silenced gun would have been sufficient. And _why_ hadn't the officers attempted, at least, to call?

"Is it possible that someone blocked the signal of the police radio, like they blocked the cell phone reception when we were there?"

"It's possible. Makes about as much sense as everything else."

Ziva nodded. "Was there anything else?"

"Fingerprints – lots and lots of fingerprints. The FBI matched them to seventeen of the missing people on our list." Abby turned to face Ziva again. "And then there's what they didn't find: IV stands; blood bags; or any indication that anyone had been living in the storage units – except the bed frames, they were still there. And no Harry Winkler."

"Still," Ziva asked, surprised.

"Yep. They checked his home, his other businesses; they even checked the resting home his mother's staying at." Abby lowered her eyes and shuffled her feet. "I wanna go – to the storage place. Don't get me wrong, the FBI did a great job – and I'm not just saying that 'cause Agent Krieger's your friend – but I need to see . . . well, everything."

"Have you asked Gibbs yet?"

"No. He's a bit cranky today – more than usual. Which, I guess is perfectly reasonable considering his hand's in a cast. And why is his hand in a cast?"

Ziva closed the distance between them. Softly she said, "Because they were much faster and stronger than we were. Our bullets hit them, Abby; here," she touched Abby's forehead with the tips of her middle and index fingers, "And here." Her fingers dropped to hover an inch above Abby's heart. "Repeatedly. But our bullets might as well have been rubber. That is why Gibbs' wrist is broken, why Tony's face is a mess and why I have these." Ziva pulled down the thick collar of her sweater revealing the white strip of gauze covering her wounds.

"Did it hurt," Abby asked.

"Yes, it did. It does not so much now."

"This is insane. Things like this don't happen . . . The thing is, no matter how hard I try to find another explanation, I keep coming up with big blanks, like someone formatted my brain."

"This is what it is, Abby." Ziva glanced at her watch. "And it is time for us to be going."

Abby pushed away from the table and removed her lab coat. "I can't believe the Director asked her here."

"Aren't you even a little curious," Ziva asked.

Abby appeared affronted by the suggestion. "No. Why would I be curious about a crazy woman?"

Ziva smirked; there was a gleam in her eyes. "You lie. I can see it in your eyes, Abby."

Abby pouted. "Fine. A little curious. Please tell me everyone there is going to be armed?" Ziva lifted the hem of her sweater revealing her holstered Sig. "Ok. I feel better now."

As they walked to the door of the lab, Ziva wondered if Abby had any idea of just how fast Summers could move.

* * *

If Buffy's smile was tired, it was at least genuine as she followed her military escort to the office of the Director of NCIS.

She'd left the hospital at around six the previous evening. Paul had sent a car for her, which was thoughtful considering her shirt had been destroyed and all she had to wear was the pale blue and very thin shirt the hospital had given her. Nope, she wasn't a fashion snob anymore . . . Ok, maybe, a little, but hospital blue – so not her colour.

Following a long shower, she'd made the obligatory phone calls: Paul, Daniel, Shannon: and glanced at her e-mail – just in case. Not that she'd had any plans on working. Her plans had included Chamomile tea, take-out and 3 movies. She'd tried to sleep but every time her eyes had closed she'd lurched up and awake in a panic. The nightmares were always worse after near death experiences – hers or anyone else's – and since she couldn't tame them, she often skipped sleep entirely. Once she reached the point of exhaustion, she let herself descend into a black emptiness so deep even the nightmares fear to tread there.

Today, she drank coffee – lots and lots of coffee.

Corporal McKkewon stopped in front of a door with a small metal plate on it that indicated that they had arrived at the Director's office. Buffy took a steadying breath and released it slowly.

'I should be used to this by now.'

The Corporal opened the door and gestured for her to enter.

"Thanks." She stepped into the room and waited for the Corporal to follow. She noticed a woman who was seated behind a desk and smiled tentatively; the woman smiled back, rolled her chair back from the desk and stood.

"Miss Summers?"

Buffy nodded. "That's me."

"I'm Mrs. Gilmore, Director Vance's assistant. I'll take you to the Director; he's just down the hall." Mrs. Gilmore joined Buffy and the Corporal by the door. "Thank you, Corporal, I can take her from here." The Corporal nodded and left. "Do you need some help with that, Miss Summers?" She pointed at the boxes and coffees Buffy carried.

"Nope, I got it. Thanks though."

Mrs. Gilmore smiled briefly and led Buffy back out into the hall and to another door; she knocked on it once, opened it partway and ducked her head into the room beyond.

"Sorry for interrupting, Director, but Miss Summers is here."

"Send her in, Mrs. Gilmore."

Mrs. Gilmore smiled again and ushered Buffy inside. Buffy glanced quickly around the room - lots of wood and colour, which she hadn't expected – and then quickly glanced over the faces of the people seated at the long table that dominated the center of the room. Some she recognized and of those she was unfamiliar with, it wasn't difficult to assign names.

The man seated at the head of the table: dark skin, dark eyes, smudge of a moustache and about as much hair; hard demeanour, intuitive stare: this man could only be Director Vance. She'd heard his name mentioned by the other agents, not always followed by polite words, but this was the first face to face.

Agent Gibbs and Director Thorpe sat on either side of the Director. 3 ½ years ago, Daniel Thorpe had been assigned to a special task force that had investigated the hierarchy of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency after allegations were made that classified technology had been misappropriated. He had uncovered the truth and with it so much more. The technology hadn't been sold to foreign buyers, weapons dealers or terrorists; it had been given to a group known as Twilight. Thorpe's persistence had led him to the real truth and, after a gruelling eight months that he and five other agents had spent wading through a maze of intel', interviews and political deflections, they had compiled enough evidence to indict the Director and four others with treason – charges that would be followed by many more in the ensuing years. As a consideration for his excellent performance, Daniel Thorpe had been offered the position of Director of DARPA. He had accepted. When the Guardians, by way of a proxy – Buffy Summers – had proposed an affiliation with the United States Government, Daniel had asked to play the role of co-ordinator/liaison; he'd already had a taste of the Underworld as the Guardians called it – sometimes the taste was bitter, but more often it was tantalising.

Buffy smiled and waved at Daniel before continuing to the last of the NCIS team she'd yet to meet, though she had certainly heard her name mentioned – Abby Sciuto; from the basic information that Paul had compiled on each of the members of the team, Buffy had learned that Miss Sciuto was a renowned Forensic Specialist. Paul had simpled it up for her,

_"Have you seen CSI? Miss Sciuto's like all the people in the lab stuck in the body of one very smart woman." _

Buffy had no illusions of Miss Sciuto's abilities; she wasn't quite sure she was going to live to see them manifest though – Miss Sciuto seemed to be dissecting her with her eyes, her stare as sharp as the Scythe's edge.

Before Buffy could move towards the empty chair beside Daniel, the older men at the table – Director Vance, Agent Gibbs, Dr. Mallard and Daniel – rose from their chairs followed, after only a slight hesitation, by the others – all but Miss Sciuto whose eyes darted from person to person as if wondering why Buffy deserved such courtesies. And every time theses courtesies were extended to her, Buffy wondered the same damn thing.

Director Vance spoke; his voice was deep and achromatic but there was a composure to his words that was welcoming. "Miss Summers – glad you could join us."

Buffy smiled winsomely. "Sorry I'm late. The meeting with the CGR . . . um, the Committee for Guardian Relations lasted longer than I thought. Last time I saw them, the Secretary of the Navy and General Bradshaw were arguing about which was better: SOCOM or AA3; the Director of the CIA and the Director of Homeland Security were trying to slip bugs in each other's pockets; the NSA guy was hacking all the computers in the room; the poor FBI guy was sitting in his little corner of the sandbox chasing the bigger cats away and the Secretary of Defense and the Attorney General were making dunce caps out of today's newspapers."

Stares – silent, stunned, stares.

Buffy walked to her chair, set the pastries and coffees on the table and took her seat. The others sat as well. "I don't get it. All these people work for the same government, right?" She toed off her shoes and pulled her legs up beside her. "So why do they always have to get so grumpy with each other about sharing the information? It's just . . . dumb." More stares and a few subtle smiles. "Sorry, they make me grouchy sometimes." She looked at Daniel and smiled.

"Hey, Daniel; how's things?"

Daniel removed his glasses, folded the arms and put them in their case. "You did behave, Buffy? No name calling this time?"

Buffy picked up her double espresso and removed the plastic lid. "Mmm . . . espresso . . . And no, no name calling." She finished the espresso in one gulp and put the empty cup on the table. "Much better." She lifted up the top box of pastries and opened it. "Sooo, whatchya talk about?"

Daniel glowered at her for a moment, like Giles used to long ago. Daniels look of profused annoyance wasn't sincere though.

"The origins of the Slayers; a very brief exposition of your time in Sunnydale and the event that caused the town to collapse." He paused for a moment to accept the cinnamon bun – heavy with caramel – that Buffy handed him on a white napkin. "You realise that this in no way excuses you from being an hour and a half late; and attempting to bribe me isn't helping your tenuous position in my good books."

Buffy smiled and batted her eyelashes. "But you tell the stories so well. I always go off on tangents, big safari like tangents when I tell them. And as far as I recall – in order to bribe someone, you gotta actually say something and no words passed these lips. I have witnesses." She took a strawberry danish from the box and set it on a napkin, in front of her. She pushed the box towards McGee, opened the second box and nudged it toward Director Vance. "You should have one, they're really good." Her focus returned to Daniel. "So, what else?"

Daniel put his cinnamon bun down on and wiped his fingers with a napkin. "Well, I mentioned your ingenuity and Miss Rosenberg's excellence at the end of the Sunnydale conflict; briefed them on the most common examples of the enemies you've faced – though I'm sure, considering recent events, they would appreciate full disclosure; and I gave them an overview of Twilight."

Even now, almost 5 ½ years later, Buffy's expression became desolate when she heard that name. It was a catalyst to great pain . . . too much pain. "So they know I'm not big with the trust when it comes to the military and the government – especially this one?"

Daniel smiled, like a father might. "I imagine that they get that now; but, and I know I've told you this before, we're not all like that. You know how, and why, I got my position and you know that there were other critical changes set in motion by the previous Secretary of Defense and his successor when Twilight was exposed."

Buffy nodded and picked up her coffee. She noticed the looks – some casual, some not – from the others seated at the table and eased the bitterness back into the tomb of her memories. "I know. I've still got these wounds, though; still haven't pulled the stitches from some of them. But I'm trying; wouldn't be here otherwise." She flipped the tab on the coffee lid and took a sip. "Guessing you told them about the Guardians?"

"Yes. It's ironic, you know, that you were the instigator of the organisation and one of the authors of its modus operandi. And wasn't it your recommendation that the Slayers should reach out to the nations of the world and offer an alliance – peace and autonomy in exchange for protection from the genetic anomalies that threaten the world? An objective the Guardians have pursued with great success."

Buffy grinned and shook her head. "See, that's why I let you do all the talking – you're a natural."

Daniel picked up his cinnamon bun and leaned back in his chair; he looked a tad smug. "For a girl who talks so much, you shouldn't have any difficulties with the rest of the conversation."

Buffy glanced at him dourly. "Gee, thanks." She looked around the table, ending the circuit at Director Vance. "So, what now? I mean, I don't expect that you're true believers or anything, but after the video Agent David brought you and the attacks at the storage place the other night, I kinda hoped you might be working on it."

"What I believe isn't really relevant," Vance answered: same steady voice; same penetrating stare. But his eyes betrayed his thoughts; Buffy could see his scepticism. "I'm more concerned with the men and women who have gone missing; at least I thought they were missing until Miss Sciuto identified one of the men on the video as Seamen David Mullins, last seen in San Diego and now," he nodded towards Miss Sciuto, "I'm told that the FBI identified another 17 from the prints they collected at the storage facility.

"The Secretary of the Navy and Director Thorpe have both assured me of your qualifications and your integrity. I like a little more reassurance before I start trusting someone. So, Miss Summers, you wanna help me out here?"

Buffy put down her coffee; she wondered if Director Vance ever yelled. She knew a few men like that, men who only seemed to lose it when hell came a knockin' and they needed to be heard over the voices of the damned.

"Sure. What do you wanna know?"

The Director's eyebrows rose negligently above his dark eyes. "Why don't we start with why you were following my agents?"

"Protection. When all those people started to disappear, I kind of figured that something not normal was going on. After I talked to a few people and confirmed what I pretty much already knew, I took a look at the profiles of the abductees and – funny thing – I found that more than half had a connection to the Navy. _Sooo_ . . . I asked Daniel who would be investigating and there you were –most of you anyway."

"How long," Gibbs asked. "And how did you know where to find us?"

"Almost four months. And Paul, my 'Handler'," Buffy grinned, "called me when you guys got a call. Don't know how he knew where you were going." She tapped her knee with her middle finger and looked at Daniel. "How did you know?"

"We had a trace on your switchboard. We used speech recognition software to monitor incoming and outgoing calls for instances of your names and when they came up we contacted the source of the call to verify the potential risk to your team. And then we called Buffy."

"Who authorised this," Director Vance demanded.

Daniel smiled apologetically. "The Secretary of the Navy. I can assure you that we only focused on the pertinent calls and nothing was recorded."

Seeing the annoyance and mistrust in a few expressions, Buffy added, "It's not like it was a perfect system; you guys are hard to keep track of sometimes. I think I broke a few speed records trying to catch up – like Thursday night and that was way too close. Stupid bike. Maybe I'll get a Ducati or a BMW – they have some nice bikes."

She glanced around the room and felt a twinge of anxiety in her gut. This wasn't going well; hadn't been since David and DiNozzo followed her to the hangar. She sighed. She couldn't blame them for being pissed. She'd been pissed when she'd spotted the two agents following her during her first week on the job in Washington. She'd finally lost her temper when the agents had followed her to a territorial pissing match between two of Washington's demon clans. The agents had been lucky; the demons had focused on Buffy, who'd had been busy setting a few deadly examples of what would happen – though on a much larger scale – if they continued their disputes in public, that they'd overlooked the two men in the car, who, admittedly, were trying to be as discreet as possible. After the demons had dispersed, Buffy had raced around a few shipping containers and approached the car from the passenger side. She may have acted a little over the top ripping off the car door and scaring the two agents to death but her adrenaline had been been pumping from the fight and her anger had pushed the limits of her self control. She'd reported the incident to Daniel who had passed it along to the CGR and she'd been tail free since.

Tony was refreshing his memory of the cases they'd investigated in the past month. There hadn't been many but with the ongoing investigation into the missing Navy personnel, they'd all been running on little sleep. There were two cases that stood out though.

Gibbs remembered those cases as well. His eyes met Buffy's.

Buffy felt the stare and turned her head; Agent Gibbs was searching her eyes, seeking out the breaks in her defences with the finesse of a fencer, which surprised Buffy – she expected a more troll hammer-ish approach.

"Had a case a few weeks back; a Private Simms, found dead in a dumpster." Buffy remembered. "We caught a break on that one. Footage from a video camera caught two men – Vincent Willis and Mark Stoker – following Simms." Gibbs leaned forward and opened the manila folder in front of him; pulled out an 8"x10"and laid it on the table. His scrutiny was less subtle now. "Funny thing though: when I sent Ziva and McGee to the suspect's apartment, they found Stoker tied up in his bathtub, soaking in a foot of water and a note on a footlocker." He lifted the photo and turned it to show Buffy. "The other guy's hanging out on the roof. P.S. Don't open – box goes boom?"

Buffy looked sheepishly at the photo. "'K, so maybe I could've added a few words, but I was in a hurry."

Gibbs right eyebrow rose. "Ah-huh. Still had time to prop a toaster on the edge of the bathtub, tie a string to it and tie the other end to the piece of metal in Stoker's lip."

Buffy suppressed a giggle. "I didn't want him to go anywhere." Daniel's eyebrows narrowed; she avoided his critical gaze and added, "'Sides, it's not like it was plugged in." She leaned forward and grinned.. "So, did he move?"

McGee turned his head to answer. "No, the toaster was still sitting on the edge of the tub. Took a while before Stoker's would move, though."

"And he stank," Ziva added; her face expressed just how bad.

Buffy played contrite. "Sorry about that. How was the other guy – Willis?"

Gibbs answered and Buffy was pretty sure there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "The man you hog tied and hung from the door handle on the roof? Pretty sure he's walking again."

Buffy nodded. "Good. Did you find his gun?"

"Yeah, we found it. How'd you know?"

"Heard them talking when I got there. Someone called, to warn them."

"And the traps? The shotgun on the door and the footlocker?"

"The trap on the door was easy – I broke the locks and pushed the door open from the side. Damn loud though – I'm surprised someone didn't call the cops."

"Not really the kind of place people want to be recognised for doing their civic duty."

Buffy nodded. "Yeah, I guess I don't blame them."

"How did you know about the footlocker," Ziva asked.

"After I found it, I broke the lock, tied a really long piece of string to the hasp and put the box by Stoker's feet. Figured, if it was trapped, the guy would probably stop me before I opened the lid. Guess he thought that jail was better than going 'BOOM' 'cause he stopped me pretty fast. Criminals these days, no dedication."

Director Vance leaned back in his chair, his expression still unreadable. "You realise that your involvement could have screwed up our case against Stoker and Willis."

"Yeah, I weighed the options very carefully: two living agents and one maybe messed up crime scene or two dead agents and two bad guys who got away. It was close there for a while." Buffy's good-natured grin thinned to a hard smile. "But I thought you might be a little upset if Agent David and Agent McGee ended up with the back of their heads blown off or other bits if they'd set off the bomb. Good agents can't be easy to find these days."

The Director acknowledged her point with a short nod. "Are there any other times you've become involved in cases; might be nice to know before they go to trial – prosecutors get a little upset when their cases get tossed."

Buffy laid the backs of her forearms on the table and looked for the scar. "There it is. See that scar?" She pointed at it: four inches long; jagged; still pink at the edges. Those close enough looked, it wasn't hard to see; nor were the others.

McGee wondered, again, what the two lines of script on the inside of Buffy's right wrist were; he'd meant to ask when he'd seen her in the hospital.

Buffy pulled her arms back. "Got that the night you guys were investigating the Navy wife . . . killed by her husband, I think?"

"It was the husband's best friend who killed her," Ziva stated.

"Really? Huh. Anyway, remember when you and Agent DiNozzo went out looking for the guy's car, in the parking garage?" Ziva nodded. "There was something hunting you, probably 'cause you're smaller than DiNozzo and these things aren't really brave. 'Course, it might've had a thing for beautiful Israeli woman too." Buffy's grin was back. "Sure as hell fought hard enough." Buffy looked back at the Director. "That's about it."

Buffy remembered something else as well. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a plastic baggie containing a set of dog tags. She held the baggie up. "Agent McGee, could you pass these to Miss Sciuto. I saw them after I dusted one of the vamps the other night. Don't know if they'll help." McGee took the bag and handed it to Abby. "Did you get the rest of the evidence from the FBI?" McGee nodded. "Good. Agent Krieger's pretty cool; she's the lead agent of the FBI team assigned to work with me." Buffy looked at Agent David and smirked. "She said you were a _wonderful_ teacher."

"And she is a very good student," Ziva replied, smiling slyly.

Gibbs glanced at Ziva with a strangely curious look and returned his focused to Buffy. "What's the point of all this – following us around, covering our asses?"

Buffy felt the nine stares, of varied intensity, smouldering against her skin. "Um, gonna stand now. The collective stares are giving me the paranoids." She rose from her chair and began a slow circuitous route around the table.

"You know what I am; whether you believe or not doesn't change that. My job is pretty much spelled out for me: find, hunt, kill. I'm good at it," she shrugged, "maybe even one of the best. Point is, that's what I do; I'm not an investigator, not when it comes to the mundane world." She paused to look out a window, eye lashes fluttered in the sun; lips twisted wryly. "All these disappearances . . . they're not just unlucky people, they're being targeted by someone . . . not just here, either." She stepped behind Daniel's chair; curled her fingers over the back. Daniel felt old instincts kick in; felt fingers dip down to the Glock he no longer carried.

Buffy leaned down and spoke quietly in Daniel's ear. "Can you pull up the sheet with all of the disappearances, please?"

Daniel nodded and reached for his glasses. Buffy continued her walk.

**Canada**

Biophysicist 1

Canadian Forces Land Force Command 23

Canadian Special Operations Forces 6

CSIS 2

Nuclear Technicians 3

RCMP 4

**China**

Engineer 4

Physicist 2

**France**

Army 8

Mathematician 1

Germany

Geneticist 2

Micro Biologist 1

**Russia**

Biochemist 2

Chemist 3

Nuclear Physicist 1

SVR: Russian Foreign Intelligence Service 3

**United Kingdom**

MI5 3

Royal Air Force 19

Scotland Yard 5

**USA**

Army 16

FBI 4

Homeland Security 2

Navy 32

NSA 1

**Total**

148

"That's an abbreviated list. Doesn't include specifics."

Everyone was facing the plasma now and not her, which was a relief; she thought the scrutiny they exhibited might need some reconciling though.

"The Guardians work with all kinds of people. They kind of ignore borders and all that crap about who owns, knows or wants what. Getting information isn't hard, when you don't have an ulterior motive – like oil or some sort of twisted religious belief.

"The first disappearances started 5 months ago in Europe and China; just a few here and there. The Guardians were asked to start a hunt for the abductees four months ago, which is when Canada, the United Kingdom and the US started reporting a growing trend of missing people, in Law Enforcement at first and then military and academics. When Navy personnel started disappearing here in large numbers the CGR asked me to keep my eye on NCIS.

"Like I said, Slayers are great at hunting things and killing them, but we suck as investigators. So, where do you go when you want to solve a crime?" Buffy stood to the right of the plasma and folded her hands behind her back. "You guys are the best at what you do. Was kind of hoping we could work together."

"You want to work with us . . . You think we need your help?" Gibbs' suspicion was plain.

Buffy spoke pragmatically. "If you keep working this case, you'll need my help and the Guardians' resources. You won't live long without us."

Gibbs frowned. "Do you know something we don't, Summers?"

Buffy smiled calmly. "Yep, probably lots of things. The big one, though – whatever is going on, it's got all the signs of . . ." Buffy considered the words that would best impact this particular group. "Well, 911, except all over the world and it won't stop and you won't be able to stop it – not without help. Same goes for me."

Gibbs looked at the Director, one eyebrow raised; Director Vance stared at Buffy.

"You're suggesting a terrorist attack with multiple targets at an international level. That's never happened and I'd like to think we're better prepared to prevent an attack like that from happening in the future."

Buffy tilted her head to the side and met Director Vance's stare – did a little searching of her own. "Ok. So, let's forget the fact that all your 'special agencies' have a harder time communicating with one another than two deaf, mute people on their first date – and I'm sure that's the same all over – and let's forget that you really have no idea _what_ will be doing the terrorising or the fact that most of those things can't be tracked or traced using fingerprints, facial recognition or DNA, so you really aren't going to have a clue where to look before the attacks happen.

"This, whatever, started 5½ years ago, around the beginning of the war with Twilight. The Underworld started doing something it hasn't in a long time – it started getting organised. I figured they wanted to be ready to wipe out the winners in our little war but they haven't done anything big scale yet, which makes me think they're not really interested in Slayers anymore; they've decided to go really big. When people started disappearing, it set off some alarms. After the attack at the hangar and the storage place though, other things started to fit in place. Because those vampires were different: they were stronger, faster and didn't seem all that bothered by bullets – not that they were before, but at least they used to say 'ow' and twitch for a minute or two; they worked together and they seemed to have better control of their instincts; they used modern weapons; and, if Corporal Miller and the vamps at the locker are any example, the transition between their 'deaths' and when they wake up again is a lot longer.

"I don't know how you guys feel about coincidences, but I'm not a big fan; seems if you ignore them they always end up biting you on the ass."

Smiling nervously, DiNozzo asked, "So, what do _they_ normally do?"

"Hunt, terrorize, feed, terrorize, make babies – kinda."

Gibbs smile wasn't nervous; it was subtly sarcastic. "So, what? You want us to figure this out for you while you play bodyguard?"

Buffy shook her head. "No, not exactly. I want you to do what you do best – investigate. And I'll do what I do best – kill anything that wants to stop you, and, maybe, provide answers to things that you probably won't understand. But I'm hoping I can learn a few things and maybe pass on some of the basics so you have a longer lives.

"I told you before that I've been working with the FBI and that's great, for some things, but you guys deal with the Navy, you know what's what and since that's where I'm being led I'm looking to improve the chances of figuring out the evil plans before the world becomes more 'Resident Evil' than it already is –and you guys are my cheat sheet."

Buffy's eyes flickered from face to face; her ears listened to heart beats; her instincts whispered,

'Let it go. Let them catch up.'

Buffy tugged on her shoes. "This is voluntary; this isn't a draft and no one can force you to work with me, not even your own government." She lifted her jacket from the back of her chair. "Also know you've got no reason to believe me – other than what you've seen – but I bet a few of you know people in other agencies; give them a call." She stood and threw her jacket over her shoulder. "I can give you a week to decide; I can't really wait any longer – waiting equals badness. Whatever you decide, it was nice to," she smiled and shrugged, "get to meet you all."

"That's it," Gibbs asked.

"Yep. Can't really tell you any more without a 'yes' or 'no'. Try to stay out trouble?" Buffy nodded at Director Vance and Daniel. "Directors," she said with a smirk.

After the door had closed behind Buffy Summers, Abby muttered, "What the hell?" and slapped McGee's hand. "Tell me you don't have a thing for crazy chick."

"You weren't there Thursday night, Abby," McGee answered distractedly.

Abby noticed a lot of that going around, many distracted faces and nary a voice, which was not at all reassuring.

Ziva looked like she was struggling: with her own perceptions of what was real; and the uncertainty of her ability to deal with what was to come – not the first time Abby had witnessed Ziva and her incongruous doubts since her return from Somalia.

Tony was, behind the facade of not believing a damn word crazy chick had said, doing exactly that – believing.

Ducky seemed to be reminiscing, though without the usual dialogue that accompanied his memories.

The Director – hers, not the guy who had been trying to sell Summers' story – seemed implacable, except for the gleam in his eyes, which, Abby guessed, spoke of his own aspirations and the welfare of his wife and children.

And Gibbs?

Gibbs looked sceptical with maybe a hint of scorn. But, there was something all too familiar about the micro-expressions flitting across his face: he looked like he'd found salvation; a chance to amend past mistakes, both personal and professional; one final war for the old warrior.

"Gibbs?"

"Yeah, Abby."

"You don't really believe crazy chick," her head darted quickly to Director Thorpe, "no offense," and back, "do you?"

Gibbs stared into space for a moment; Abby could see regrets falling from his eyes. "I don't believe anything yet, Abby, but I don't think she's playing us."

Director Thorpe spoke quietly as he rose to leave. "What we have discussed, including Miss Summers' brief contribution, is considered a matter of national security. We're not quite at the international level, though diplomats, both foreign and domestic, have been communicating. This isn't an exercise, nor is it some sort of psychological test. If you have any doubts then I suggest that you follow Miss Summers' advice and contact any connections you may have; she's affiliated with several of the agencies within the DOD and Justice, including the local PD.

"Miss Summers and I have worked together for 5½ months and I have learned, in that time, to trust her word when it concerns the Underworld and its agendas. She's been fighting this war for 13 years – longer than any other Slayer – I think she's earned my trust. I'm almost certain that she knew that this would happen, one day."

Tony laid his hands flat on the table and looked at Director Thorpe with cautious curiosity. "Uh, sorry, Director – what would happen?"

Daniel smiled. "Power does not necessitate good morals or ethics, Agent DiNozzo. Our own government, and many others around the world, could attest to that – if they were ever so humble. The enemy very much want their home back and with more than 6 billion food sources on the planet, most in poverty, and the most powerful nations attempting to win a game that can only end in greater destruction and chaos, I believe they have a very good chance of succeeding. As part of the agreement between the Guardians and the countries they're allied with, a report was compiled of criminal activities within those countries. The report covers 4½ years, from June 2004 to December 2008, and shows a dramatic acclivity in the number of unsolved homicides, assaults and abductions. Based on these figures and the reports of Slayers in the field, the Guardians estimate that the enemy numbers could be as high as 100,000 and the highest concentrations are located in Canada, the US, the United Kingdom, Russia and China." Daniel straightened his jacket, checked to see that his Blackberry was in his pockets and picked up the folders from the table.

"I realise that it's far too early to ask for your trust but I do hope that you will at least be open to the possibility. Buffy isn't always . . . politically correct? But she is fiercely loyal and more clever than she would like you to believe. I can't speak for her, but I can say that the people she's worked with – Agent Krieger, James Tripp, Paul Thorpe, Commander Paris and his team and myself – have learned that she is dedicated to resolving the threat as expediently as possible.

"Well, it has been a pleasure to meet you in person and not as a name on one of Miss Summers' reports. I hope you'll consider her offer. Have a lovely afternoon."

Tony looked around the table at the pensive and distracted faces. He was willing to follow Gibbs lead as he always had. Of course, there was always the – hopeful – possibility that everything he'd heard and seen in the past week could be explained as an hallucination brought on by a brain tumour.

Gibbs broke the silence. "Well, Director, what's next?"

Director Vance absently rolled a toothpick between thumb and index finger while he considered his answer. "Follow up on _Winkler's Safe Store_ and get in touch with Agent Krieger at the FBI, I think it's about time we started coordinating our efforts. In the meantime, you all might want to give some thought to Summers' request and before you ask – I know as much as you, the only thing I can say is SECNAV is on board with the idea."

Gibbs stood and picked up his empty coffee cup. "And you, Director?"

Director Vance's answer was a cryptic look and a hint of a smile.


	4. Dog Days Are Over

When reactions turn into hurricanes  
And the middle course seems a little tame  
Whether full or empty it's all the same  
It's so easy to see, everyone can agree, you're not to blame.

Silversun Pickups

**Monday October 27th, 2009, Outside Ziva David's Apartment**

"Morning!"

Ziva had already detected the woman leaning against her Mini Coop'; oddly, she was having a difficult time trying to choose a response.

"What are you doing here?"

Blunt always worked.

"Coffee?"

Ziva frowned and pulled her car keys from her pocket. "I am on my way to work; perhaps some other time?"

"I'm going there too, thought maybe-" flash of hazel eyes, a little too big, a little too sad – Ziva rolled her own eyes – "I could catch a lift with you and maybe ask you 'bout something? But, coffee is kind of important . . ."

Ziva shook her head. "Get in." As she climbed into the driver's seat, she smiled.

* * *

They had stopped for coffee – Buffy insisted on buying coffees and donuts for everyone – and had driven – silently – for two minutes before Ziva's curiosity prompted her to speak.

"You had a question?"

Buffy nodded. "Yep. What's it take to get into Miss Sciuto's good books, other than a degree or ten, fatherly affection or persistence, cause I'm getting homicidal vibes – I can feel them already – and I really don't want to play 'dodge the vial of lethal non-traceable poison'."

Ziva smiled as she recalled her own efforts to befriend Abby. "It will take time. If we do work with you, Abby will have an opportunity to get to know you; perhaps, then. I will warn you, she is very stubborn."

Buffy grinned. "So am I."

Ziva pulled up to the NCIS gate and flashed her ID. Buffy offered her Department of Defense card to a second Marine; he inspected it carefully and returned it with a small nod.

Ziva entered the parking lot, found a spot and parked. She grabbed her bag from the back seat and got out of the car. Buffy followed. Before she could tackle how she would carry everything, Ziva joined her and took one of the trays of coffee and the bag of donuts.

"Thanks. I could've juggled them – maybe – but I could see much embarrassment if I missed." She slung her duffel bag over her shoulder and picked up the second tray of coffees.

Ziva glanced at Buffy as they approached the front doors of NCIS. "Why did you need to know about Abby? We aren't officially working together yet?"

Buffy blew a strand of hair from her face. "Your Director called me last night; said Miss Sciuto wanted to get a look at the storage units and asked me to go with." She blew harder on the strand of hair, to no avail. "Since I kinda wanna have a look myself when it's all," she looked up at the low grey clouds moving slowly across the sky, "cloudy like and hopefully death free, I said yes. As long as he knows that I know that he thinks that I don't know-" She stopped; her brows narrowed. "I screwed that up. Point is, I'm pretty sure he didn't call me just to play bodyguard; he wants to check me out and he wants you guys to check me out as well." Ziva opened the glass door and Buffy stepped into the lobby. "Thanks. Not that I mind; I mean, it's only fair, right?"

Ziva's response was forestalled for a moment as she showed her ID to the guard and stepped through the gate. Buffy set the tray of coffees on the counter and pulled her wallet from her jacket pocket. She opened her wallet and held the ID up for inspection. "I'm armed, too, just so you know. Don't wanna get shot when your detector thingy starts beeping."

The guard glanced at Buffy's card and then down at the monitor behind the counter. _CLICK CLICK_ went the mouse.

"You've been cleared by the Director. Here's your visitors pass. Please wear it somewhere visible at all times. Do you need an escort?"

Buffy shook her head. "No thanks – got one. Agent David's taking me to her leader. Hope he likes donuts."

The guard didn't respond to her flight of whimsy. He passed her her visitor's badge, asked her to step through the gate and waited for the next person in line. Buffy quickly clipped the badge to her jacket lapel and stepped through the gate. She breathed a little easier after she rejoined Agent David; she still expected alarms to squeal and guards with guns to yell, "Freeze!" She hated this, being confined to a big building filled with armed men and women. She felt the same way when she met with the CGR – especially when the Secretary of Defense and the Attorney General were in attendance. She didn't bother carrying weapons on those occasions; she avoided wearing anything metallic if she could.

By the time they stepped off the elevator she had managed to calm her breathing; 'course her hands were shaking so bad the coffees were gonna be frapped by the time that anyone opened them.

* * *

**NCIS**

Buffy greeted Gibbs, McGee and DiNozzo cheerfully and began passing out coffees and offering donuts. When she reached Gibbs desk, after handing him his coffee, she reached inside her jacket , extracted an envelope and handed it to him. He looked curiously at her. "It's a warrant thingy for the airport in Manassas. In case you wanted to see who rented the hangar or have a look inside."

Gibbs took the envelope. A brief look of irritation creased the corners of his mouth and eyes. "How?"

"Uh – Paul asked if you guys had a warrant yet for the hangar and since I didn't know - actually, didn't really know what he was talking about – he said he would try again; I guess the first time was a bust – something about a lack of provable clause or something. He dropped it at my place this morning."

Gibbs shook his head and smiled very briefly. "Thanks."

Buffy smiled back. "'Welcome."

Ziva joined Buffy at Gibbs desk. "We should go and see Abby."

Gibbs picked up his coffee and stood. "Mmm-hmm. Should be interesting."

* * *

"Oh, look, it's crazy lady." Gibbs smiled. Buffy cocked an eyebrow and smirked. Abby did not look amused. "Gibbs, why is she here?"

"You wanted to go out to _Winkler's Safe Store_."

Abby frowned. "Yeah . . . Ziva and Tony were going to take me."

"Change of plans. The Director wants to make sure you have adequate protection."

Abby's eyes widened. "Gibbs – no. I don't need to be protected. I'm just going to look, in the middle of the day, with two armed agents. I don't need . . . her."

Buffy took a step forward and linked her fingers behind her back. "Do you remember the big thing with the horns and the bad attitude from the video, Miss Sciuto? Things like that don't care if it's sunny, rainy, hurricane-y . . . and they really don't care about guns. You can't outrun them but if you're lucky they'll kill you quick – before they start ripping off body parts."

Abby looked abstractedly disgusted. "Jeez, you couldn't've just said 'they'll kill you'?" She focused on Gibbs again, pleading with her eyes. "Does she really have to come?"

Gibbs' lips twitched. "'Fraid so."

Abby 'humped' and crossed her arms. Looking pointedly at Buffy, she said, "Fine. Don't get in my way and don't touch anything – I don't want you contaminating the evidence."

Buffy nodded sombrely. "Understood. No getting in the way and no touching. Thank you, Miss Sciuto."

Ziva, who had masterfully contained her amusement thus far, added, "Call me when you are ready, Abby."

Ziva glanced at Buffy and nodded at the door; together they left the lab.

Gibbs crossed his arms and leaned against the evidence table. His eyes followed Abby as she finished packing her kit. The watching did not go unnoticed; Abby turned and crossed her own arms, almost defiantly. "What?" Gibbs' eyebrows rose fractionally. "She scares me, ok? It's bad enough that she's been stalking you guys for months . . . And now she's brought all this craziness with her, stuff that makes no sense and completely contradicts . . . well, everything. And then," Abby's voice rose, "when she's supposed to be protecting you, she's not and you end up with a broken wrist, Ziva almost dies – again – and Tony – well, Tony's always getting hit in the face – but still . . ." She lowered her eyes and her voice. "I don't think I can do this again, Gibbs. I will, if you guys agree to work with her, but I'm not sure how sane I'll be when it's over." Gibbs pushed away from the table and approached her. "If you're planning on giving me a pep talk . . ."

"Nope. Not this time. You don't need me to tell you how strong you are."

Abby hugged herself. "Could ya tell me anyway?"

Gibbs smiled affectionately and kissed Abby's cheek. "You'll be fine, Abby. And before you make up your mind about Summers, you should know, what happened the other night - that wasn't her fault." Gibbs' voice became bland. "We were set up. Only reason she knew where we were going was because Ziva called her."

Abby looked scared. "Who set you up?"

"Don't know, Abbs; kinda hoping you could figure that out."

Fear became determination. Abby picked up the phone. "Then I guess we better get moving, huh?"

* * *

" . . . Nothing? And no one's seen either of them at Winkler's house? No nosy neighbours? . . . . . Yeah, alright – I'll let him know . . . . . Yep. Well, thanks and I'll let you know if we find anything . . . . . I will! . . . . . Courtney – would I lie to you? . . . . . Ok. Ciao."

Tony stared at the handset of the phone for a second before he hung it up. "Huh. They grow up so fast." He went to his e-mail and opened the message Agent Krieger had sent him.

"Boss, I've got something." Tony sent the open files to the plasma and got up from his desk. "Just spoke to Agent Krieger. Still no sign of Harry Winkler. They checked his home, talked to the neighbours and talked to a few people in Winkler's other businesses: a body shop in Langly and a bar in Dupont Circle."

Gibbs stare suggested a growing impatience. "That's what you've got?"

"Ah, no; just thought I'd start with the obvious . . . moving on. Winkler had a girlfriend, Marie McDowell; she and her son, Owen, moved in with Winker three years ago." Tony loaded the photos on the plasma: a pretty woman in her mid thirties and a man, who bore a striking resemblance to his mother, and looked to be in his late teens, early twenties. "One year ago, Marie McDowell died of a brain aneurism. Owen stayed with Winkler and together they started a security company, _McDowell Security._ From what Courtney and her team gathered, Owen was the brains – he put together the security systems, wrote the software, all that geeky stuff – and Winkler was the salesman."

"Why didn't we know about this sooner?" Gibbs asked; his impatience was becoming evident.

"Actually, Courtney didn't know either until about an hour ago. Seems that someone stopped by the Third District to file a missing persons on Owen McDowell. Said she hadn't seen or heard from Owen in days."

McGee frowned and looked at Tony. "Who was she?"

Tony smiled smugly. "His girlfriend. Apparently, they were supposed to go away for the weekend and he was a no show. She searched around for him – contacted friends and co-workers – before she tried the cops."

Gibbs rubbed the side of his chin with his hand. "Let me guess – missing since Thursday?"

"You got it, boss."

Gibbs grabbed his gun and badge from his desk drawer and stood. "McGee, with me." He grabbed his trench coat from the back of his chair, put his arm in the right sleeve and hung the coat over his left shoulder. Before he stepped from his desk, he picked up the warrant Summers had given him. "DiNozzo, find out who owns the hangar in Manassas. Have a look inside while you're there."

Tony looked curiously at Gibbs. "Boss? Didn't think they were going to let-" Gibbs handed him the warrant. Tony unfolded it and read quickly over the contents. "How'd you get this?"

Gibbs, half-way to the elevator, called out over his shoulder, "I didn't – Summers did."

Tony frowned and then he realised – "Hey! I'm going alone? What if-"

Before he stepped on the elevator, McGee turned his head and smiled, "Just stay in the light, Tony."

"Fine. Just so you know – if I get eaten, I'm coming back to haunt this place – you'll never get rid of me!"

* * *

**Winkler's Safe Store**

They were waved on to the lot of _Winkler's Safe Store_ by one of the bored agents posted to guard the location. Ziva pulled up in front of the office and stopped.

"Where would you like to start, Abby?"

Abby looked down at the satellite photo of the storage facility. Each of the five units the FBI had discovered open and the office had been indicated on the photo with a small label: Office; Unit 37; Unit 43 etc . . .

"I'll start with the office and then I'll go to the unit you guys went to the other night."

Ziva nodded. "All right."

Buffy opened her door and got out. Without hesitating, she started towards the office. Over her shoulder she called out, "Back in a sec'."

Ziva paused on her way to the open trunk of the car and turned her head to respond – to an open and empty doorway. She joined Abby and held her hand out for her bag; Abby grinned and handed her the camera bag instead.

"You get to be my photographer."

"I can do that," Ziva said, as she removed the camera from the case.

Abby slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder and picked up the laptop case. Ziva closed the trunk.

"Ready?"

Abby frowned. "Where's crazy lady?"

Ziva shook her head. "Inside, clearing the rooms?"

"Oh. Isn't she being just," Abby held up her free hand, thumb and index finger an inch apart, "a _liddle_ paranoid?"

"No." Ziva's voice was harsher than she'd intended. The healing wound on her neck and the memory of her helplessness had a tangible quality here. Abby could not understand how close they had been to death or the emotional stress that followed. Ziva suspected that she hadn't quite come to terms with that night either; there were new nightmares now. Was it weak of her to be grateful that Summers had joined them? With a small, conciliatory smile, Ziva added, "She is being careful; that is all."

Abby shrugged and began walking toward the office door. Ziva pulled the strap of the camera over her shoulder, rested her palm on the butt of her Sig and followed.

* * *

Forty-five minutes had passed by slowly. Worse than slow. Buffy remembered High School . . . History class . . . on the wall above the blackboard had been the one inevitable clock with the minute hand that only followed the laws of time when it felt like it. It wasn't that time had stood still – eventually the minute hand had caught up – but it had really felt like it. Like now. Except her watch was accurate. Maybe that just made it worse.

Buffy had chosen to remain outside – with the cool damp air and light wind – after she'd checked out the bare office and washroom. She'd paced, stretched, done a little Tai Chi . . . Now she was listening. Miss Sciuto had rechecked the office and declared that there was nothing new.

"The FBI did a good job for a change."

"Washroom next?" Ziva inquired.

"Washroom next," Abby agreed.

A moment later . . .

"Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew!"

Buffy chuckled. Maybe she should've warned them. The washroom was repulsive. It looked like it hadn't been cleaned since it had been built. And, while there was a toilet, she wasn't sure what exactly its function had been because it was probably the cleanest item in the room; the floor, however . . . Roaches, silverfish and flies completed the decorum. The smell had been the worst of it though; it had caused her to gag and retreat outside where she had sucked in sweet, wonderful air before advising Miss Sciuto and Agent David that the office was safe to enter. Relatively safe, anyway.

* * *

Abby took two hurried steps back from the washroom, stumbling on the last step; Ziva caught her before she could fall.

"Abby, what is the matter?"

Abby looked over her shoulder and made a face.

"She's mean. I mean, she could've warned us, don't you think?"

Ziva pulled her head quickly from the washroom, her forearm pressed against her nose and mouth. "I have another word for her."

Outside the office, Buffy giggled.

* * *

Abby had braved the washroom, wearing gloves and a mask. There were, thankfully, few places to search; Abby was thorough, regardless. Her dedication paid off. While examining the inside of the toilet, she discovered a slit in the filler float and when she lifted the float to examine it closer heard a rattling inside. The source of the rattle turned out to be a key.

A few moments later, Abby and Ziva appeared; both of them were grinning in a way that made Buffy nervous.

"Here you go," Abby said, holding out the brass key. "While Ziva and I are looking in lockers, you can take this around and see what it opens."

Buffy had sighed resignedly and held out her hand.

* * *

After receiving the key from Abby, Buffy had walked to the first unit. She suspected that this task, as much as it was payback for not warning them of the washroom, was also meant to keep her out of Abby's way while she processed the storage unit that had been the focus of all of the excitement Thursday night. She didn't mind; it was better than doing the 'boredom shuffle'. She had arrived at Unit 23. She lifted the Olympus padlock and tried the key; it slid in and turned without resistance. The lock opened easily, like someone had oiled it recently. She pulled the hasp back and hung the lock on the u-bolt. The door protested as she pulled it up – a steely screech she felt in her spine, not particularly loud but, in contrast to the quiet of the cloudy morning, loud enough to stir a crow from his perch on the edge of the building's roof. Her anticipation dulled when the contents of the unit were revealed; it was filled with stacks and heaps and mounds of junk. Kind of reminded her of the homes of those people with that disorder – there was a TV show about it – or the basement of the _Magic Box,_ except _that_ clutter had been a little intriguing, a lot sinister and quite possibly hazardous to one's health while _this_ was just junk: boring and garish. About the only thing that would hurt her here was the dust (already tickling her nose) and maybe the god awful canary yellow jacket hanging from a clothes rack. It was painful to think that _anyone_ with any sense of self respect had ever worn it.

As she studied the junk in the unit more closely, she noticed that there was a vague path leading from her position to the back left corner. She considered Abby's earlier warning:

_". . . don't touch anything – I don't want you contaminating the evidence."_

But really, how badly could she screw things up by having a look? She decided to chance the possible lecture and went in. Sidling a stack of milk crates that held LPs in dusty plastic sleeves and carefully avoiding the horrible jacket, she followed the path to the end. Sitting atop an old trunk that had been pushed up against the interior wall was a metal box, maybe two feet wide, a foot high and a foot and a half deep. The hinged lid was unlocked.

"I hate mysteries."

She knelt in front of the box, placed her fingertips on either end of the lid and lifted it very slowly – ¼", that was all. Holding the lid steady with her left hand, she drew the stiletto from her boot sheath and delicately ran the the tip of the blade through the narrow opening.

"Maybe I should've waited for Agent David; she's probably much better at this sorta thing."

A minute later, she took a breath and re-sheathed her stiletto; there had been no obstructions. She raised the lid a little more and opened up her senses; amid the musty smell of old clothes and rat shit, the drone of traffic and the almost intelligible voices of the two guards: there were two other scents, another sound – an acrid chemical aroma and the smell of human sweat, and a very faint electrical humm. The chemical odour reminded her of the smell of Spike's lighter – she had no idea why; it wasn't like they were all that similar. That happened sometimes, out of the blue like: she'd hear a sound or smell something and Angel or Spike – or both – would pop into her head. Now, she wondered what Spike would say if he were here; probably something not helpful. He would have stuck around though. She felt an ache of melancholy in her heart as she realized that she couldn't remember what his voice had sounded like – not in the ways that mattered.

"Well, Spike, if you happen to be watching the latest episode of 'Buffy Does Dumb', try not to laugh too hard – and stop staring at my ass."

She held her breath and opened the lid.

"Ok, you can laugh now."

Sitting on the bottom of the box was a device she'd seen enough on TV and in movies to recognise as a pipe bomb: two capped steel pipes, each with a wire leading from the cap to a device that reminded her of one of those card swipe thingies they had in stores except without the slot for the card. On the narrow screen above the keypad was a display and on the display: 00:00:21. Below the countdown, a cursor flickered. Buffy didn't think it was waiting for her PIN#.

"Shit. Big smelly shit."

Her eyes darted over the rest of the box's interior: a Flash Drive; a thick, legal sized manila envelope, which rested on something a few inches thick; a handgun and a small box with 'American Eagle' and '9mm' printed on it. Her eyes returned to the bomb, looking for any indication that if she removed it or the less explosive contents of the metal box that she wouldn't have to worry about that cremation clause in her will. Actually, if she remembered right, at this range she wouldn't burn she just have her insides turned into something resembling gooey porridge. She opted with removing the items – carefully and quickly. She found out what had been beneath the envelope – bundles of money held together with elastic bands. She didn't have time to appreciate the discovery, though an image of, maybe, a new bike might have popped into her head. When everything had been removed, she grabbed a few old t-shirts poking out from a half open suitcase – tried not to scream when a rat poked his nose out from the nest he'd made in the remaining clothing – tucked them tightly around the bomb and laid a few more on top. She closed the lid on the box and picked it up.

"Now what?"

Silently, she counted off seconds.

She moved cautiously back through the junk until she'd cleared the storage unit.

00:00:09

She tried to remember, from the satellite image, what was around. There was a railroad yard or something across New York Ave; she would have to jump down to it. Not something she wanted to try from the bridge, but there was a strip of woods that ran along an embankment that overlooked the tracks, maybe she could find a better way down there.

By the time she reached New York Ave, she was flying. She crossed the street on an angle, aiming for the trees –

00:00:06

She heard car horns and squeals . . . felt branches slap against her face as she leapt over rock and brush. When the edge of the embankment came into view, she pushed harder and didn't stop. She landed lithely and shut out the sharp pain in her feet. The soles of her boots tore into the gravel as she launched herself forward. Sharp eyes spotted a large metal tank with no top. Behind that was a corrugated metal shed. She aimed toward the shed. When she passed the tank, she tossed the box inside and without any visible hesitation

leapt.

And out of the blue, kinda like the way she felt Spike and Angel sometimes, she felt a Slayer – strong and proud and panicking.

And then,

the morning exploded.

* * *

Outside the second to last storage unit, Abby was packing her kit; she and Ziva had decided to stop for a mandatory – Abby's words – bathroom and beverage break. Ziva was leaning against the brick wall between the units, hands in her coat pockets, head tilted back and eyes half closed. Abby grinned as she closed her bag. The soft _thump-thump-thump_ of Ziva's boot against the pavement belied her apparent composure. Ziva, Abby knew, was a woman of action and playing 'Abby-guard' really didn't require much action . . . mostly.

Abby slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder. The laptop sat on the ground by Ziva's _thump-thump-thumping_ boot.

"Ok, I'm ready," Abby said. "Let's go before they detect seismic activity and send someone to investigate."

Ziva turned her head and looked quizzically at Abby. "Why would they send someone to investigate – and who are 'they'?"

Abby smiled playfully and pointed at Ziva's now still boot. Ziva's brows narrowed. Abby shook her head. "Never mind."

Ziva picked up the laptop, though she still appeared puzzled.

On their way back to the car, they heard car horns and the screech of skidding tires. Ziva frowned and quickened her pace. They had just passed the last unit in the row and turned towards the car when they heard the blast and saw the smoke across New York Ave. Abby froze. Ziva reached for her phone and dialled the police.

Abby looked left and right; where was crazy lady? She saw one of the guards approaching at a run. He stopped in front of her.

"The other woman who was with you – short, blonde? She took off across the street less than a minute ago, carrying a box. She disappeared into the woods and then," he nodded at the cloud of smoke, "that happened."

Abby paled. "Maybe crazy lady really is crazy."

* * *

**Guardian Support Communications, Black and Tan, 2nd Floor**

Paul swivelled in his chair and reached for his coffee. He drank the cold remains, chewed on a few grounds, and put the cup back down on his desk with a sigh. It was only his second cup of the morning, something he was going to rectify, just as soon as he'd read the last of the Activity Reports from the FBI and the GSC (Guardian Support Command). There hadn't been much activity in the last month; Buffy had cleaned house pretty thoroughly during the first three months of her post in Washington. International activity was less sparse, but he was only concerned with the American postings of Slayers and Guardians. He did receive and send summary reports to the RCMP, MI5, the SVR, and the Police Nationale as well. The sharing of information wasn't something he was familiar with, but he was grateful for it. It was much easier to see evolving patterns when the input came from multiple sources. He loaded a report from Agent Krieger – they had improved in the last few months. He suspected that the improvement was a reflection of her developing confidence as a Lead Agent and her familiarity with the subject matter. Buffy had helped, as well. As he read, he half listened to the police scanner that occupied a small table on his left. It was more of a formality now, but during the months Buffy had been cleaning up Washington it had been a very useful tool.

Those days had been exhausting, especially the early days when his attendance had been necessary to establish protocols with the local PD and the FBI. He rubbed his forehead and chuckled. Buffy was not very tactful when she was pissed. The CGR had needed to dip into their 'Collateral Damage' fund much earlier than they had expected to cover the costs of Buffy's temper: a new door for a Crown Vic' (Buffy had removed it after she'd discovered that two FBI agents had tailed her); hospital bills for two cops (they had made the mistake of trying to shoot her when she wouldn't give up her weapon – that thing she called a scythe); a bottle of 12 year old single malt for the Chief of Police (a diplomatic gesture to encourage his support of the CGR mandates); three store windows (Buffy had been thrown through all of them); 1 city bus (he never did get the complete story on that; something to do with 'containment'). Additionally, she had angered the Arlington County Board, a senator and General Bradshaw, though Buffy really couldn't be faulted for the last. As part of her orientation, Buffy had spent a weekend at Fort Munroe. The idea had been to familiarise her with Army regulars, Rangers and CID. On the second day, while she had been working with CID, four Rangers had confronted her on the mats; Buffy, of course, hadn't backed down. Paul had heard that the fight had been spectacular and quick. In her defence, Buffy had said that the men wouldn't stop until she had, literally, stopped them. General Bradshaw, a Ranger as well, had not been happy. The Secretary of Defence had stepped in and soothed the animosity – backed by strong words to the General to keep his men and their egos in line.

Paul shook his head and logged off his computer. He needed coffee now, and some fresh air; the Activity Reports could wait.

He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and put it on; picked up his cell phone and dropped it in his pocket. He turned to the door-

And a voice crackled on the police scanner. He caught 'explosion at the rail yard between New York Ave. NE and Harry Thomas Way NE' and pulled out his phone.

"Agent Krieger, please."

* * *

**October, 2008, Beach House, Bristol Maine**

"You've done this before?"

"Mm-hmm. Some, in Sunnydale, before things got crazy, and in Tibet – that was the last time."

"You should practice more often, you know; before you sleep, if you can."

"Wouldn't one of those anti depressants they advertise on TV work better?"

"No. Your condition can't be cured by popping pills; it's a piece of you now, and the Slayer. The enhancements she gave you weren't meant to be undone, I'm afraid. But the more you familiarise yourself with them, the better your control will be and, if I'm as competent as I believe I am, eventually you should be able to enhance and dampen your senses with little effort."

"And what about them – this gonna help? 'Cause it's kinda awkward when I suddenly start speaking Russian or Mandarin in the middle of a conversation."

"There are methods used by therapists treating patients with Dissociative Identity Disorder; we can explore those. Ultimately, however, you must master them.

"I imagine that both traits would be advantageous to a Slayer."

"Yeah . . . If I can find the on/off switch and the dials for the volume. What about something to help me sleep, you know, without the nightmares?"

"There's nothing you could take long term. Dreaming is important, though I'm not sure that anyone quite understands why; the human brain is very much a mystery. And even if there was a solution, I wouldn't offer it."

". . . Why?"

"As I understand, after your disaffiliation with the Powers, the Slayers no longer had prophetic dreams. And since the Powers were, essentially, the authors of prophecy, you are now the only Slayer with a connection to the future."

"Wait . . . You're sayin' none of the Slayers have the screwy dreams?"

"No. None. I've interviewed all of them – most, briefly – and when I asked about the Slayer dreams the answer was the same – none of them , including Faith, have had a 'screwy dream' since the last day of the war."

"Oh my god! Go me!"

"You're smiling . . ."

"That what that was? Huh. 'S been a while."

"Why are you smiling?"

"Because . . . I think I really did it. I mean, yeah, bad things are going to happen – they always will, Slayer or not – but at least we get to make our own choices now."

"You made a few dangerous choices on the last day. Why did you do it – other than the obvious, of course."

"She warned me before I agreed; she said her gifts were always in balance. I thought about it, seriously thought. Didn't matter though, I had to accept. Slayers were dying and Twilight wasn't giving me any options – none that I was going to agree to. The consequences were worth it . . ."

* * *

**Present Time, North East of Winkler's Safe Store**

Her first thought upon returning to consciousness –

'Stop screaming, I'm awake.'

The screaming didn't stop; it sounded like a 14 year old Dawn having one of her angst fests only amplified a thousand times.

Her head hurt, inside and out; so did her right cheek; the palms of her hands: minor pain. Annoyances compared to the screaming. She found her heartbeat, pulsing like a metronome, steady if a little fast. She focused on the beat, imagining the sound.

Fell into the rhythm.

Cassandra would kick her ass for not thinking before she acted; with many long and poignant words – Buffy doubted that Cassandra could physically kick the Easter Bunny's ass.

The screaming faded to be replaced by a ringing that would also fade in a few hours. Carefully, she rolled over, first on her side and then, when she was sure that she hadn't heard anything moving that wasn't supposed to, on to her back. She stared up at the low, grey clouds and blinked slowly. A face hovered above her looking concerned and nervous. She looked a little lower; between blinks, she discerned the uniform. Local PD. The cop was saying something impossible to decipher with no hearing and blurry blinking eyes.

"I can't hear you," Buffy said.

The cop opened his mouth and closed it without speaking. Buffy noticed the look of irritation that crossed his features. He stepped out of view a moment later. A familiar shape darted beside her; sank to her knees and looked down on Buffy with concerned hazel eyes.

Buffy smiled sheepishly. "Hey, Courtney. I can't hear yet but give me a sec' and I'll get up and tell . . ." She trailed off. Courtney had shaken her head; lifted her fingers so Buffy could see them – they were covered in blood. "Your head is bleeding," Courtney mouthed, enunciating each word slowly.

Buffy's expression became stubborn. "Unless you can see my brains, I'm getting up."

Courtney had never managed a proper glare in Buffy's presence; the intended look had always been softened by concern or uncertainty. She was much better at the glare now. Not the only things that had changed. When Buffy had met her, she had worn pants suits and button down shirts; conservative hair and make-up. And when she'd moved, her insecurities were displayed to all. Now though, she wore jeans, an open long sleeved shirt over a 'Washington Nationals' t-shirt and short black motorcycle boots. Over that, she wore her blue FBI coat. Her hair was shorter, though not as short as Buffy's, and generally, she kept it in a pony tail or braid.

Courtney had changed as well; she liked to think, for the better. A week after she had agreed to join the FBI team that would be assigned to the Guardians, she had tried to quit. Why? Because Buffy Summers, their instructor, had scared her. Only one woman had made her nervous before – Ziva David – and Buffy was far more dangerous than Ziva, which, a few years ago, would have seemed impossible. But, as she had with Ziva, she found a much less scary woman behind the cold shining eyes and implacable expression.

* * *

**June 26th 2009, FBI Academy, Quantico**

"Agent Greer, give Agent Crutcher a hand to the Infirmary. And next time, Agent Crutcher, block or duck but don't stand there staring at the fist about to knock you on your ass."

"Yes ma'am," Crutcher mumbled.

"Erikson and Olivera, you can go. See you Monday."

Courtney froze, mid step, when she realised that her name hadn't been called. She put her foot down and crossed her arms protectively over her chest. Summers waited for everyone else to leave before turning and facing Courtney directly.

"Agent Krieger . . ."

"Ma-am?" Courtney's arms tightened around her chest.

Summers took a step forward . . . and smiled. It was kind of a sad smile. "I get it. Being afraid isn't always a bad thing. Being afraid of me though is . . . well, it's kinda funny."

Courtney hoped she wasn't supposed to laugh because, at the moment, she could barely breathe; figured her heart might stop when Summers grinned and held her hand out.

"Take it."

It wasn't a demand but Courtney complied like it was; she took the offered hand: it was hot and dry. Summers fingers curled around her own gently, like she was holding the hand of an infant.

"Now, breathe, before you pass out."

Courtney took a deep breath, followed by another. She was relieved to feel her heart thump in her chest.

"Good. Now, sit."

Again, not a demand but she sat, cross-legged, on the training mat and lowered her arms. Summers disappeared from view; she reappeared on the mat behind Courtney, her legs stretched on either side of hers and her hands . . .

Courtney tensed. "What are you doing?"

Summers applied pressure to her neck: thumbs and palms. "I'm trying to work some of the anxiety from your muscles. 'Course, you're probably all worried I'm gonna snap your neck. I could but just 'cause I can do something doesn't mean I'm going to. I really don't like killing humans; these days, I'm kind of partial to getting to know them." Courtney groaned and felt her cheeks become very hot – the groan had sounded too much like surrender. Summers didn't mention it, just kept massaging her neck. "I figure I'm a little rusty in the 'getting to know you' department; probably why I can count my friends in Washington on one hand . . . um, if I cut off all my fingers first. Guess I need to work on my people skills."

Summers' hands moved to Courtney's shoulders and continued their ministrations. Powerful hands and yet so careful. Outside of the pleasure those hands delivered, Courtney considered Summers' admission. It was a surprise and yet, it wasn't. While Summers was attractive and charismatic, in a stand-offish way, she emanated an aspect of menace that seemed to make everyone around her uneasy, or, like Courtney and a few others, afraid.

She didn't get a chance to finish her thought, Buffy started speaking again.

"You were my first choice. You had all the qualities that make a good agent but . . . more. You want to do good and you don't expect a parade for doing it. You're devoted and you care about the agents you work with. And you're not jaded; there's still some innocence in you; some hope. Don't know if they consider those things important here – I'm thinking not. I do. 'Course, your kickass-y-ness on the mat helped a lot. Where'd you study?"

Courtney's brain was in a jumble. Praise was rare in the FBI, even rarer for young female agents. Summers hadn't been any more generous with the praise in the week they had spent together; certainly nothing like this. "I was learning from a friend; she was a liaison for Mossad and NCIS. She went back to Israel at the end of May."

Summers hands stopped moving. "Mossad . . . Ha! That's where I recognise it from; she was teaching you Krav Maga."

Courtney nodded. "Yeah. I asked her to teach me how to fight after a case we worked on together. She's very good."

Summers legs and hands disappeared and then she stood. "Show me."

Courtney rolled her shoulders and stood. She turned to face Summers, who was smiling benignly. "Show you? You mean attack you."

"Yep. Don't worry about hitting me, I can take it."

So, she had.

Following that day, the two of them had started meeting for coffee; coffee had progressed to lunches and lunches to dinners or going out for drinks. They had stayed at each other's homes when the bars held no interest; movies, take-out and wine, which usually evolved to conversations that carried into the early morning hours. Courtney had taken Buffy (it was 'Buffy' after that first talk – when they were off duty at least) to a Washington Nationals game; spent most of it laughing while Buffy bitched out the umpire and the batters who couldn't connect and cheered the rare acrobatic displays of the players on the field. Courtney didn't think that Buffy had really understood the idea of supporting one team or the other; but she'd been having so much fun, she'd let it slide.

She hadn't quit the FBI team after all. She was glad that she hadn't. She still wasn't quite comfortable with her role as Lead Agent but time and experience would ease her doubts. More important, she had a friend; she was pretty sure it was a mutual deal.

* * *

**Present Time, North East of Winkler's Safe Store**

Courtney wiped her fingers on her jeans and took a notepad and pen from her coat pocket. She flipped through the pad to a new sheet of paper, wrote, 'Wait for the EMTs – please' and held it up for Buffy.

Buffy shrugged. "Fine. Was anyone hurt?"

Courtney shook her head very slowly from left to right and back.

Buffy grinned. "Courtney, I'm deaf, not blind. Have you seen Agent David or Miss Sciuto?"

Another headshake – normal speed – and a curious look bordering on panic.

Buffy reached out and grabbed Courtney's arm. "No. They weren't with me. We were at the storage place when I found this bomb in one of the units."

Courtney nodded and pulled out her phone. Buffy closed her eyes and waited; 'course, that's when it started to rain.

Someone touched the back of Buffy's hand lightly; she opened her eyes. Courtney was looking down at her, smiling anxiously. A few behind her stood Agent David.

"I guess the EMT's are here?" Courtney nodded. "Ok. Before they take me, I need to tell you a few things . . ."

* * *

**Washington Hospital Center, 3rd Floor**

Buffy stepped out of the examination room at the hospital and pulled her jacket back on. Her cheek and palms had been cleaned – her left hand was bandaged – and she'd had four stitches half an inch above her eyebrow. Oh, and she could hear again; she wasn't sure if she was happy about that or not – as soon as she stepped into the hall, she was assaulted by two voices – many words:

"What the hell were you thinking?"

And,

"Wow. You really are crazy."

The first from James, who had elected to come to the hospital and check on her since Paul was busy – soothing political nerves, no doubt – and the second from a wide-eyed Abby Sciuto who was standing by a calm Agent David.

James didn't give Buffy a chance to respond. "Seriously, Summers, did it occur to you that the device could've detonated if you moved it?"

Buffy's head hurt, quite a bit, and her entire focus was on getting out of the hospital and breathing fresh air; she hadn't planned on a welcoming committee.

"Box goes 'boom' no more evidence. I let the box go 'boom' somewhere with no people around. No one got hurt, evidence is safe – end of story."

James studied Buffy with inexpert subtlety. "No one got hurt? Funny, seems we're all in a hospital – again – waiting for you to get stitched up – again."

Buffy forcefully stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket and stared blandly at James. "Can we do this somewhere that's not here, please?"

James breathed deeply through his nose, held his breath for three seconds and released it slowly. "Fine. I'll drive you home."

"Actually-" Buffy left the words hanging and turned her head to look down the hall. Dr. Watts, who looked harried but still managed to smile, was approaching; she'd called Buffy's name, too softly for the others to hear. She stopped abruptly in front of Buffy, like she'd forgotten where the brakes were, and held out a prescription bottle.

"Sorry, Buffy, I meant to get you these sooner but the damned pharmacy had some difficulties verifying my status. Twenty Tylenol 3's for your headache. Take two every four hours – if you need them. You really should eat something first."

Buffy took the bottle and shoved the ache back long enough to smile. "Thanks, Audrey. And food is on the menu." She grimaced. "That was bad, even for me."

"If your headache persists, or gets worse, I want you to come back. You shouldn't take chances with head injuries."

Buffy's smile fell. "Yeah, I know: tumours and aneurisms."

Audrey nodded. "Any questions, call me, ok? I have to get back. Every time you come in, I spend three days in the lab. You are an amazing study." Buffy raised an eyebrow. "A little too clinical?"

Buffy nodded. "'Make me sound like a lab rabbit. Speaking of small furry animals, if you have anything else for Mouse, can you send it? She's been pacing for two days."

Audrey smiled abashedly. "Of course. I'm still getting used to the routine so I sometimes forget one thing for another. I'll send her the data from your last visit and, if we can compile it quickly enough, this one as well."

"Thanks, Audrey."

Audrey waved and returned back down the hall.

Buffy returned her focus to the three individuals standing with her. "I need air and coffee. Actually, switch those around."

She didn't wait to see if anyone had acknowledged her; she hadn't been asking a question, she'd been stating a fact. Pocketing the pills, she started walking towards the elevators.

* * *

The drizzle and breeze of earlier had strengthened; it was raining now, heavy drops swept up by the stronger, chillier currents of air. Buffy had found a bench partially sheltered from the rain, until the rain danced again at least. She could suffer the dampness for now, the air was refreshing and while it wasn't free of its own acrid smells, it was at least free of the depressing scents of human suffering. Holding her coffee in her right hand and an open bottle of water between her knees, she fished the bottle of pills from her pocket. She popped the lid off of the bottle, dumped four tablets into her mouth and swallowed them back with half the water.

"I need more hands," she remarked absently. She put the lids back on the pills and water, put the bottles in her jacket pockets and opened the lid of her coffee. Her headache hadn't abated yet but the fresh air and the promise of the painkillers had eased some of the tension in her neck and shoulders. "Now, if everyone promises to talk real quiet for half an hour, I'll answer your questions."

By silent agreement, or, perhaps, because she'd yet to speak, Ziva elected to go first.

"Abby found a motion sensor rigged to the door on the storage unit; we believe that was what armed the bomb. How did you know it was there?"

Buffy blinked. "Uh, motion sensor? Didn't know there was one. Saw a path through the crap and followed it. Found a metal box at the end and opened it." Before James could comment, no doubt about her stupidity, she glared at him and added, "I checked it very carefully. Twice. The bomb was already tick-tocking down though. So I took the stuff out, stuffed some t-shirts inside to hold the bomb in place and ran."

"You were very lucky that you didn't trigger the device; pipe bombs are notoriously unstable," Ziva said.

"I had my _Lucky Charms_ for breakfast."

James shook his head. "You were still damned lucky though, Summers."

"Ok, got it, I was lucky. Let's move on shall we? Did you find what was in the box?"

Ziva sat down on the bench, facing Buffy. "Yes, Courtney is taking it to NCIS. The rest of her team is searching the contents of the storage unit. They will call if they find anything."

Buffy nodded and sipped her coffee. "Cool. So, were you guys going to check out the treasure and, if you are, can I come? I'll buy lunch . . . or dinner. What time is it anyway?"

"4:30," Abby answered. "And yes, we are . . . I guess an extra pair of eyes could be helpful."

Buffy smiled; it was easier this time. She looked at Agent David next.

Ziva responded promptly. "I am fine with it, though I think you should call Director Vance first."

Buffy reached into her jacket and unzipped the inside pocket. She took out her phone, turned it on and entered the security code. "Good idea. I should probably call Paul and let him know-"

James interrupted. "Already done. He called the Secretary of the CGR as well and updated them on the situation. The FBI have taken control of the scene. They're claiming that the explosion was staged as part of an emergency response drill."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Of course they did. Good idea, I guess. Don't want people in a panic." She dialled the number for NCIS and lifted the phone to her ear. "So, what do you guys wanna eat?"

Abby's phone rang. She stepped away, closer to the hospital doors, and answered. "Hello?"

Tony's voice hissed in her ear. "Where the hell are you? I've been calling for an hour."

"We're at the Washington Hospital Center with Ziva, Summers and some either guy. Summers almost got blowed up; they just released her. We – um, she – found some stuff in a locker; we're going back to have a look. Where are you?"

"Walter Reed Medical," Tony answered. "Gibbs and McGee are here. They were bitten by something at Winkler's house. They're . . . well, I'm not sure what they are, since no one's telling me anything, but it doesn't look good-"

Abby's eyes widened alarmingly and her free hand shot up to cover her mouth.

"Abby? You there?"

Ziva and Buffy had turned to look at Abby after she had stepped away to answer her phone; both saw the look of horror on her face and heard the voice on the phone calling her name.

Ziva hurried over. "Abby, what is the matter?"

Buffy ended her call and followed a little more slowly. Quietly, she said, "Something not nice. Miss Sciuto, can I have your phone?" Abby held it out reflexively; her hand was trembling. Buffy took it gently from her fingers and lifted it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Summers? Where's Abby?"

"She's right here, Agent DiNozzo; just needs a minute. What happened?"

Tony sighed. "Gibbs and McGee went to Winkler's place to look for the son of his dead girlfriend, uh, Owen McDowell. While they were there, something bit them. They found Owen and brought him here. Whatever bit them, well, McGee had a seizure in the ER admissions and Gibbs passed out. They're both on respirators and have really high fevers – whatever the hell that means. They won't tell me anything else."

Buffy didn't bother with questions; there would be time for those later. "Ok. I'm gonna need you to trust me and do what I ask you to – just for now. Think you can do that?"

There was a pause and then, "Guess it depends on what I'm trusting you with."

"Gibbs and McGee's lives."

"Oh. Is that all."

"I'm going to make a few phone calls and have them transferred here. They have resources here that none of the other hospital's have."

"Like what?"

"Their own lab; a bunch of science-y types who are supposed to be some of the best around; a lot of hi-tech do-dads; and some pretty awesome doctors: that kind of stuff. Gibbs' and McGee's life expectancies will be a lot longer if they're here."

Another pause while Tony considered. "Alright. I'll trust you. Just keep in mind, Summers, if this backfires you're going to have a lot of people looking for pay-back."

"I'll take my chances. I'll pass you to Agent David. Stay put."

Buffy handed the phone to Agent David and took out her own phone. Before she made her first call, she turned to James. "I need someone at Henry Winkler's place. Make sure no one goes in unless they're NCIS or FBI and warn them about bite-y things; Agents McGee and Gibbs were bitten by something – 'k?"

James nodded. "Done."

Buffy hit redial on her phone. "Hello, it's Buffy Summers again. Sorry for cutting you off. Is Director Vance there? . . . . . Ok. Can you ask him to call Agent DiNozzo and myself as soon as you hear from him – it's kind of an emergency . . . . . You can do that? . . . . . Great, thank you Mrs. Gilmore." She entered her phone book and called another number, one she had only used a few times before. "Hello. It's Buffy Summers. Any way I could talk to Mr. Blackwell? It's an emergency . . . . . Thank you . . . . . Hi. Sorry for bugging you, but I need a little favour . . ."


	5. Of A Divine Roach And A Brilliant Mouse

In organizations, real power and energy is generated through relationships. The patterns of relationships and the capacities to form them are more important than tasks, functions, roles, and positions.

- Margaret Wheatly

**The Washington Hospital Center, 3rd Floor**

The Walter Reed Army Medical Center had sent Agents Gibbs and McGee and Owen McDowell via helicopter to the Washington Hospital Center. Each man came in his own see through plastic box; Abby said they were used for bio-hazard containment. Buffy felt a chill when she considered how serious this mystery illness could be. She marvelled at the efficiency of the staff who had been assigned to treat and study her and were now, without hesitation or question, preparing to do the same for their three new admissions. Wendy had come in; she'd been on a week's leave but, when she'd heard about the situation from Audrey, she'd decided to cut her time off short. Buffy appreciated it and the efforts of all of the staff, even if they were motivated – in part – by their compulsive need to study, discover and solve.

Tony appeared in the quiet waiting room with Abby in tow; she looked terrible; they all looked terrible. Buffy stopped pacing a few feet in front of Abby.

"Miss Sciuto-"

"Abby," Abby said. "Miss Sciuto makes me sound . . ."

"Like your mother? Except for the 'Miss' part, I mean, 'cause it would actually be 'Mrs.' . . ."

Abby smiled weakly. "Yeah."

Buffy returned the smile. "Buffy – please? I've been 'Miss Summers', 'Ma'am', 'Boss' and lots of other not so nice words. I think I just wanna be 'Buffy' again."

Abby held out her hand; it was almost steady. "Nice to meet you, Buffy. Still think you're crazy."

Buffy's smile became playful. "Me too. But I want you to know – the doctors and scientists here are really good."

Abby nodded. "Oh, I know. I talked to a couple of them." She squeezed Buffy's hand. "Thank you."

"Welcome."

Tony and Ziva, who had been patently observing Buffy and Abby, abruptly began to speak.

"Where is Director Vance?" Ziva asked.

"Supervising," Tony answered. "He took a team to process Winkler's house. Told us to report back to NCIS when we're done here."

Without turning, Buffy asked, "Is there any reason why we need to be here? They're not gonna have anything for a while. We could see what the Director found; you know, like clues, something that might help?"

DiNozzo shook the demons from his head. "You're right. We should head back." He paused, waiting for Abby's protest. Instead, her features hardened and her eyes became scary intense.

"So? Why are we still here?"

* * *

**NCIS**

When they arrived at NCIS, they were called up to the Director's office. Buffy seemed to be the only one who was nervous. She didn't like going over people's heads – she hated it when it was done to her. But there hadn't been time to play phone tag; and, sometimes, stepping on toes was unavoidable. She just hoped that Director Vance had tough shoes.

Vance was perched on the edge of his desk, a glass of something amber (god, she could use a glass of something 'amber' right now) in his hand. He was watching a news report on the plasma; Buffy saw 'FBI Emergency Response Drill' and caught a glimpse of Courtney's profile. The sound was off. Vance lifted the remote in his other hand and switched to a live broadcast of ZNN. He put the remote on his desk and turned to face them. His expression was grim.

"DiNozzo – SITREP."

Tony briefed the Director on what he knew, including his own investigation into the owner of the hangar in Manassas and the,

_"Useless nurse at Water Reed who wouldn't tell me anything." _

"I'm going to follow up on the owner of the hangar. Abby's obviously going to figure out what bit Gibbs and McGee. Ziva's on the evidence from the storage locker and Summers . . . Well, I guess she'll let me know."

The Director nodded and focused on Ziva. "Agent David, what happened at _Winkler's Storage_?"

While Ziva followed Tony's example, Buffy moved over to the glass shelves that displayed bottles of liquor. She didn't turn when the Director called her name and asked about the explosion.

"There was a bomb in a box. It was counting down. Didn't want the evidence or anyone else going 'BOOM'. So, I got rid of it. Figured the train tracks would be the best bet. That's about it."

"Agent Krieger dropped off the evidence from the storage unit," Vance said, his voice growing closer. "And the team I left at Winkler's house has brought in their preliminary findings. I'd like you to have a look at the photos, see what you think."

Buffy nodded. "Sure."

Vance was beside her now. He motioned at the bottles with his glass. "What's your poison, Miss Summers?"

"Scotch, neat," Buffy answered.

Vance poured her a double _Dalwhinnie_ and made the offer to the others. Tony and Ziva accepted.

They sat at the table in front of Vance's desk, facing the plasma. Vance had returned to his perch on his desk. He picked the remote up again; a moment later a photo of a fairly typical living room appeared on the plasma's screen: couch; easy chair; armchair; coffee table; end tables with a lamp and framed photographs on them; generic paintings on the walls; plasma TV; DVD player: typical. What wasn't typical was the layer of dead insects and arachnids that covered every horizontal surface in the room.

For all that Buffy had experienced, what she saw now evoked a, "Holy shit."

Director Vance scrolled slowly through the pictures that followed; in every room, dead bugs covered the horizontal surfaces of the furniture, window sills, floors . . .

"Samples have been sent to your lab, Miss Sciuto."

He continued to scroll through the photos, now showing a basement that had been converted to an electronics workshop. Again, bugs covered every surface. He stopped at a photo of a panelled wall; one of the panels had been removed revealing a steeply sloping and narrow passage that ended at an open steel blast door.

"Through the door is a bomb shelter; recently constructed. We determined that Owen McDowell was found in the doorway. For some reason he'd taken refuge here."

"Protecting himself from someone or thing," Ziva suggested.

The Director nodded. "It's possible. We won't know until we talk to him." He switched back to ZNN. "Owen McDowell can wait. Focus on Gibbs and McGee and the evidence from the hangar, storage facility and Winkler's home. I want answers before the situation spirals anymore. Whatever you need to figure this out. Understood?"

Everyone stood. Buffy left her empty glass on the table and approached the Director. "If it's ok with Abby, I'd like to help. From what I've seen, this is kind of looking like it might be my area of expertise and I can get in touch with people who know about stuff like this."

Abby nodded. "It would save me from calling her every time I have a question."

"I can help with other stuff, too, if you need it," Buffy added. "I have a suggestion, as well."

"Go ahead," Vance said.

"If it's possible, you might want to keep this quiet, like, maybe, work out of Abby's lab? I'm thinking security, too. You're already two down and after Thursday night, I don't think taking chances with anyone else is a good idea. I can make the rounds with someone and pick up whatever anyone needs – stuff from home, food, coffee . . . "

"You think what happened to Gibbs and McGee was intentional?" Tony asked.

Buffy's sombre tone was a surprise; none of the others were quite used to it yet. "I think someone was cleaning up but I also think someone knew that you or the FBI would be going into the house. Which means, we're getting close to something important. Or, this could be a diversion, to slow us down or make things even more confusing.

"Just think it might be a good idea to be smart now and alive later."

The Director studied Buffy with equal gravity; finally, he nodded. "Let's play it your way. You know this enemy better than we do; you know their capabilities and their motivations. Put together what you need. Agent David, accompany Summers.

"That's all."

* * *

**Abby's Lab**

Abby bounced – literally – into her office; she was clearly agitated. "Where's Buffy?"

Ziva rubbed her eyes and looked at Abby. "Washroom. Didn't you see her go by?"

Still bouncing, Abby moved into the room and held her hands out for Ziva and Tony. Curious, Ziva rose from her seat and took one. Tony followed more slowly, groaning at the ache in his lower back. He took Abby's other hand and Abby led them into her lab.

"I know what bit them. But I found something else that I need Buffy to look at."

"Right here," Buffy said. She had stopped on her way back to the office to look at what was on Abby's monitor.

Abby released Ziva's and Tony's hands and spun. She stared silently at Buffy for a second and bounced back into her office. "Just a sec'."

She returned quickly holding a red ribbon with a bell hanging from it. She stepped behind Buffy and drew the ends of the ribbon around her neck.

Buffy sputtered. "Abby, what are you . . ."

Abby interrupted. "Gibbs would never go for this and you're sneakier. I didn't think that anyone could be sneakier than Gibbs." She tied the ribbon and grabbed Buffy's hand. "Come."

A very bemused Buffy followed (jingling all the way) as Abby led her to the plasma mounted on the wall of the lab.

Abby let go of her hand. "Stay." She bounced back to her computer, took a long sip of her CAF-POW! and turned to face an astonished Ziva and smirking Tony. "Well? Get your butts over there." Ziva and Tony obeyed immediately and took a place on either side of Buffy.

"Nice bell," Tony quipped. "I should stop by _Victoria's Secret_ and see if I can find something that goes with it."

Buffy tilted her head to meet his eyes and smirked. "Sorry, Agent DiNozzo, but I'm going through a more curvy phase right now. Anyway, Abby's lab, Abby's rules. She wants me to wear a bell, I will – she's the boss."

Tony's eyes widened speculatively. Ziva glanced at Buffy curiously and with a little speculation of her own.

Abby called their attention back to the matter at hand. "Like Buffy said – I'm the boss, so pay attention." Three pairs of eyes returned to the plasma. "I figured out what bit McGee and Gibbs. I ran the bite pattern against the most common perpetrators first and then widened the search to include insects and arachnids that are less likely to bite. Guess what it was?" Abby waited expectantly.

"Beetle," Buffy said.

Tony looked at her, annoyed. "Hey, that was my answer. Ok, how 'bout a flea."

Abby shook her head. "Flea bites are pretty common, Tony."

Ziva frowned. "A cental-pede?" Buffy looked at her oddly. "What?"

"Just think you mean 'centipede'."

"Whatever it is called. One of those."

Buffy smiled.

"Nope, nope and nope," Abby said with some gusto. "Buffy was closest though. It was . . . " They heard the click of a mouse and a picture appeared on the plasma. "What do you see?"

Buffy answered with a little shiver. "Cockroach."

"The _Periplaneta Americana_," Abby added, "the American cockroach. Largest common cockroach around and one of the few capable of piercing skin with their bite. Funny thing is, even though they _can_ bite they don't do it intentionally. Usually it's because they're trying to pick food or moisture from our bodies, which is just," Abby's face screwed up and her body shook. "I hate roaches."

Buffy and Tony nodded exuberantly.

Abby took another sip of her CAF-POW!, like it would cleanse her of roach thoughts, and continued. "Roaches are knows to carry all kinds of diseases. The hospital is testing for the most common. What isn't common though . . ." Another click of the mouse. "Is this." A second picture appeared on the screen. It was a close-up of the roach's head. "Now whaddya see?"

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "Is that . . ." She tilted her head and focused more closely. There were symbols on the back of the roach's head. "It looks like Cuneiform. 'M gonna take a wild guess and say – that's not normal."

Tony and Ziva were both staring at Buffy.

"You know what language that is?" Ziva asked.

Buffy glanced distractedly at Ziva. "Oh, yeah. Its Sumerian or Babylonian, something like that." She turned and looked at Abby. "Can you send that to someone for me if I give you their e-mail address?"

"Sure. You know someone who can read it?"

"Yep. He can probably help with the why's too."

Abby abruptly turned back to face her monitor and started typing. "There you go. I put your name in the 'Subject' so they'll know who it is."

Buffy went to the computer and added the address, a simple greeting and explanation of what the attachment was. She clicked 'Send'.

"He'll get back to me pretty fast – as long as he doesn't get lost in a book."

Tony and Ziva joined Abby and Buffy by the computers.

"Think you could do a coffee and snack run," Tony said. Buffy nodded. "And grab us some clean clothes . . . and my toothbrush . . . and . . ."

"Make a list of what you want," Buffy said.

Tony nodded and picked up a pad. "When you get back, we should sit down and share what we have."

Buffy picked up her rucksack. "Good idea. Be nice to have some sort of direction. I hate running blind."

"I am coming with you." Ziva's tone was firm.

Buffy's eyebrow rose and she smirked. "Ahh-huh. Fine, but you're wearing a vest. Didn't know what we were doing today so I brought my spare and extra clothes – you wouldn't believe how much clothing I go through."

Ziva nodded once. "Agreed."

* * *

"Did the Guardians give this to you?"

Buffy turned and pulled off her t-shirt. "Yep. Armour, undershirt, gloves, boots and other stuff that I usually don't bother with." She pulled the undershirt over her head.

Ziva lowered the light and surprisingly supple vest she'd been examining. Buffy's bare back faced her; her skin was marred with scars, most small and faded; not surprising, really. What was surprising was Buffy's slight physique and her apparent softness; both defied the strength and power she had demonstrated. And then the shirt was pulled over the bare skin and the incongruities were once again hidden.

Buffy knelt beside her rucksack and pulled out a plain white t-shirt and tank top; both were large on her. She turned to look up at Ziva. "I brought a couple of shirts if you need one. I don't have an undershirt that would fit you; they're kind of tailored for each Slayer."

Ziva took the tank top. "Thank you." She turned and stripped off her shirt. Buffy put her vest on and pulled the first strap through the buckle. She resisted raising her head and catching a peek, and though she told herself that even if she did it would only be because she was curious, she knew that wouldn't be the complete truth. She finished with the straps and shifted a few times until the vest settled more comfortably. Ziva was halfway through buckling the straps on her vest.

Buffy shook out the hoodie she was wearing over the vest. "You might want to do up all of the buckles first and then adjust for comfort. I can see a lot of the more well endowed Slayers having a hard time; lucky me, I don't have that problem."

Ziva snorted. "You're not alone. And this is much more comfortable than some of the armour I have worn."

Buffy pulled on her hoodie and tucked her gloves in her belt. "Do you have something to wear over it? I have a sweatshirt, if you want."

Ziva glanced at Buffy as she finished her adjustments. "Is it big enough?" Buffy nodded and tossed it to her. Ziva caught it and held it up. "Harvard? Did you study there?"

Buffy laughed. "Yeah, right. Stole it from a boyfriend I had in New York. Lasted a whole month and then I scared him away."

"How did you scare him?" Ziva asked, her question partially muffled by the sweatshirt as she pulled it over her head.

"Kind of attacked him one night when I was really . . . you know. Forgot about the whole strength deal." Buffy pouted. "Told him I'd pay for the bed."

Ziva grinned. "Ahh . . ." She pulled her hair back in a ponytail and secured it with an elastic. "Ready?"

Buffy nodded. "Seems like a lot of work but I'd rather not be shot tonight." She paused outside the doorway. "Hey, you think Abby could use a hand? I know someone whose, like, a genius at solving puzzles."

"I don't know, you would have to ask. Does this person work for the Guardians?"

"Sort of. She works from home – my old home, actually. She's . . . protected . . . by the Guardians and government agents. She really is amazing at figuring puzzles out and . . . well, it just be easier if you met her."

Ziva looked concerned. "I am not certain the Director would approve."

"It's not like she hasn't been cleared, or whatever. She does work for Daniel and the FBI – the Criminal Investigative Division and something called the BAU. I'm sure Director Vance won't mind."

Buffy smiled winsomely and Ziva shook her head.

* * *

**M Street South East**

Buffy _had_ gone up to speak to Director Vance. The Director had verified that Mouse was an established off-site agent of DARPA and the Guardians had granted her access to the building and permission to join the current investigation. The only stipulations to the agreement were: Mouse could only access information as authorised by Agent DiNozzo and all information was restricted to the building.

Buffy had been surprised and a little amused by the Director's uncharacteristic enthusiasm after he had read Mouse's profile.

_"Damn . . . Where'd you find this woman? She'd be one hell of an asset."_

_"We kind of found each other. And no trying to steal her away."_

Not that Mouse could be stolen away; she wasn't particularly suited to Agency environments.

After picking up the list and house keys and making an off-handed mention that she was bringing a surprise, Buffy followed Ziva out of Abby's lab and out of the building. The cold air and clear night were refreshing changes from the stale smells in the building.

When they were seated in Ziva's car, Buffy rolled down the window."Do you mind?"

"No. It helps to wake me up."

After they had passed through the security gate, Ziva glanced at Buffy. "I will stop at Abby's and Tony's first. After that, where are we going?"

"2828 10th Street North East. You can park around the side."

Ziva concentrated for a moment and nodded. "Alright, I know how to get there. We will stop at the store on the way back, yes?"

"Yeah. Makes more sense. I might need a minute with Mouse."

Ziva glance curiously at Buffy. "Mouse?"

"Yep. She's . . . different. In a good way."

"How did you meet this woman?"

Buffy stared uncomfortably out the windshield. "I, uh, dreamt about her?"

"You . . . dreamt about her."

"Yeah . . . I have these dreams sometimes; they're like, really confusing glimpses of the future, usually in terrifying 3D with Dolby sound . . . They're pretty bad. Sometimes, though, they can lead to goodness. First week I was here, I was trying to get my bearings – you know? New city, big politics I wasn't ready to deal with. I used to go for walks at night, clean up the stray vampires and things. One night, after a big slay, I had a dream and not the Martin Luther kind.

"You know the story about the lion and the mouse? You know, the lion's gonna eat the mouse but he has a sore tooth, so the mouse crawls into the lion's mouth and removes a splinter and then the lion eats the mouse anyway?"

Ziva looked confused. "I . . . have not heard that story. I have heard others that are similar . . ."

"Doesn't matter. The dream was like that only, instead of a lion, there was me – a me that couldn't see. And the mouse didn't pull a splinter from my teeth, she removed the blindfold from my eyes. I remembered other parts of the dream, like where I was. Took three nights, but I found her."

"If I didn't know a little about you, I might think that you were . . . um . . . what's the phrase? Toying with me?"

Buffy grinned. "Yep, that works. I'm not though – really."

Ziva was quiet for a moment and then, "So, have you dreamt about me?"

Buffy's head jerked to face the passenger window but her tight ponytail couldn't hide her reaction; the back of her neck and cheeks were crimson.

Ziva glanced at Buffy and smiled like the proverbial cat.

* * *

Her name really isn't 'Mouse' but it's not 'Frederica' or 'Freddie' either – and not just because it's a man's name with a feminine twist, or because it's her father's mother's name (she was German; her father's father was Irish). Honestly, she doesn't concern herself with names much. But the children at school had; her name had been another peculiarity on a long list of peculiarities that they had used against her. Like the colour of her eyes –

"What a freak. Have you seen her eyes? Think she's an alien?"

Or the colour of her skin, which wasn't quite as dark as her biological receptacle – her mother was Iranian – but different enough to cause fear and, therefore, prejudice.

Her name didn't become 'Mouse' until years later: after her genetic providers had been killed on a New York street; before she was transferred from the psych ward at St. Elizabeth's Hospital; after the doctors and nurses had taught her how to speak (again) – though only a little louder than a whisper; and after they had tested her IQ twice, the results of which had caused such obscure excitement in eyes and voices; after they'd given her their _diagnoses_: severe depression; social anxiety disorder and Asperger's. She had known that she was different before they had brought her to the hospital. She'd recognized her differences not long after. She had watched and listened to the other patients and she'd realized that, while she could read a four hundred page book in a few hours, the others took days to read something half the length.

No one had paid much attention until the day the doctor sat some of the patients down and asked them to complete a quick test of their math skills. She had taken one look at the sheets, pushed them away and continued reading _I Am The Cheese_ until Dr. Pushpin (his name was actually Dr. Pishkin) had taken her book from her.

"Complete the exercise, to the best of your ability, and you may have your book back."

She had picked up her pencil (103mm long; 7mm thick; with a tip 4mm long and an eraser 6mm long) and, while he watched, filled in all of the answers.

"Book – please?"

He hadn't returned the book until he'd verified the answers. His face had looked funny after he'd finished. Bemused, he had asked, "Why did you leave these answers blank?"

"Those are the answers."

"They should be 0's."

"Isn't a zero nothing?"

Dr. Pushpin had returned her book.

The following day and thereafter, she was given all the reading material she desired. She taught herself math, algebra, trig, calculus; studied physics, differential equations and fractals. Quickly she broadened her sphere of interest to include chemistry, biology and genetics. Her favourite things to read – 'til this day – were Quantum physics and string theory. The more she had read, the better she had understood why she was so different, because everything: from gods to grains of sand; from drops of rain to the paradox of time: had a pattern and she could see those patterns; she could traverse their intricacies and find the truths. She had only begun to touch the fringes of her awareness when they had come.

* * *

There were two, a man and a woman, and she could discern their occupations and intentions with fair certainty almost before they sat in the cheap wooden chairs across from her and Dr. Pushpin. The man introduced himself as Mr. Sharpe and the woman as Ms. Maussade.

"It's nice to meet you, Ms. Kelly," Ms. Maussade said with a smile.

"My name's Mouse, no last name."

Ms. Maussade's smile faltered. "Mouse? Your first name is Frederica, isn't it?"

Dr. Pushpin interceded. "She has adopted this name – Mouse – and will answer to no other. I suggest that, if you wish to communicate with her, you should address her as such."

"Of course," Mr. Sharpe said. "Well, I suppose I should explain why we're here. We are representatives of a school – sponsored largely by the government – that provides resources for young men and women who have exemplified extraordinary intelligence. The school offers numerous courses, the same as you might find in a University or College, which means that you could complete your formal education and work on degree programs. What are you interested in?"

She studied the backs of her hands, how the tendons flexed every time she was asked to speak. "Many things."

Dr. Pushpin elaborated. "She's studied physics, mathematics, biology, genetics . . . We do have a list of the material she's read; it's rather extensive. Would you like to see it?"

Mr. Sharpe stood. "That would be helpful; I'll join you."

She turned her head sharply to look at Dr. Pushpin, eyes panicked. The doctor touched her shoulder lightly with his fingers and smiled. "I'll only be a moment, Mouse." She nodded and returned to the study of her hands.

Ms. Maussade was quiet and still for a moment. When she did speak, her voice was soft. "I understand you enjoy solving puzzles and understanding patterns?"

She nodded.

"Have you considered how you might use your passion to . . . well, improve medical treatments or devise new or better methods of producing clean energy, for example?"

Her chin rose a fraction.

"These are some of the programs that the school sponsors. I understand that you prefer to work alone and, other than scheduling lab time if you required it, this is perfectly acceptable. And there are a number of resources I think you may enjoy – an extensive library, for example, and supervisors who are . . . well, I'll be honest, not quite as smart as you but they do have experience."

Her chin rose another fraction.

"Every student is provided their own room, of course – furnished as they like. And you would receive a monthly contribution to your future – every student receives the same – so when you do want to move on you will at least have the finances to provide a place to live, a vehicle if you want one – that sort of thing."

"I can leave when I want?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

Ms. Maussade smiled. "Of course. Some of the students like to visit the University; some like museums; some like amusement parks: you are welcome to leave whenever you like. We only ask that you let one of the supervisors know; they tend to panic when they find empty rooms."

She smiled – it was the genesis of a smile at least.

* * *

And that was how Mouse had found a home. And for four years, it was the best home she'd had. She'd still met with Dr. Pushpin once or twice a week. He'd come to visit her at the school, usually just to talk.

She had seen other doctors, too, although she'd refused nine physicians before she'd met one she was comfortable with – and even then, when she'd had her first physical, which involved a certain amount of nudity and some very personal touching, she'd almost fainted.

The dentist had followed and to simplify the process, they'd knocked her out. She had decided since, that she really hated having her teeth touched. They'd put braces on her to correct her bottom teeth, which were slightly crooked and overlapped in places, but they were the almost invisible kind so she hadn't minded.

And then she'd had her eyes checked and she'd discovered that, like the woman whose womb she had emerged from, she was near sighted. Ms. Maussade, who had asked to be called Helen, had taken her to buy glasses. She'd had fun that day, trying on frames and showing them to Helen, who had offered her opinion until she had found the ones she and Helen had thought best. She'd bought two pairs and a pair that were tinted for the sun, which tended to irritate her eyes after so many years inside. They'd gone for lunch after and she'd had Mexican for the first time. She liked it but thought that Helen might have warned her about Jalapeño peppers. After, they'd gone shopping and she'd bought all the items she had never cared for before like a new coat: black wool, shiny brass buttons and sleek red lining. Or black leather boots with heels – small ones – that your feet slipped into, just like that.

For four years she'd felt . . . happy. She had learned so much and discovered more about herself. And while her only real friends were Dr. Pushpin and Helen that was two more friends than she'd ever had. So when it all fell apart, she realised that the dissemination should have been expected. That was how cycles worked. They never persisted for long; after all: chaos is found in law; life in death . . .

The first circumstance to jar the cycle askew was the decision of the school trustees to disband the school. All of the students had been offered positions with other government agencies if they desired – and there was a good deal of propaganda to encourage them to do so – otherwise the school would provide them with transcripts of their accomplishments. This hadn't bothered Mouse. Change was constant, after all.

But then Dr. Pushpin was killed in an automobile accident on his way home from a psychiatric conference in Boston. He had preferred to drive, when the distance allowed, and had been a cautious driver, but no amount of caution could have prevented the other driver from losing control of his car and slamming into the doctor's. The driver of the other car had also been killed. This had bothered Mouse. Change was constant, yes; but every change caused ripples and she had felt those ripples change her.

The third event splintered the cycle; left it vulnerable to manipulation. Helen had been shot. They – Mouse really hadn't cared who they were – had said that it was a possible mugging, or it was gang related. Mouse had cried for the first time in her life. Just tears that trickled down her cheeks like drops of rain on a window, which was appropriate as she had felt like glass. Change . . . was . . . constant . . . but there was a a new pattern emerging in the ripples now. A synchronicity of events that turned ripples into waves. She had seen the pattern. She was at the center.

That was the first time that Mouse had been angry, not like her male genetic provider who had used his anger like a physical weapon, angry like she had been sad – intense and controlled.

When two men had come to the school with a proposal for the Trustees regarding her future, she had realized that this new pattern was beginning to resemble a net – to capture her. She had listened to their words, watched them twist and spin in the air creating reassuring truths from sinister secrets. The men's smiles were prepared, like a method actor assuming the role of the kind and understanding doctor (had these men killed Dr. Pushpin?) and their eyes were lies and hypocrisy. She had listened and nodded and said, with equally false enthusiasm hidden by her own assumed role as the brilliant but barely functioning student,

"I would like to think about it; but maybe. I have no one here anymore."

Had she detected a flinch in their eyes? A brief but poignant unmasking of the truth? She believed that she had and it was enough to decide her course.

She left that day, as casually as she was capable of. She went to Dupont Circle, withdrew $500 from her account and walked. And she didn't stop for seven days. On the last was when she was found again and when she found out so much more about herself.

She met Buffy by the Mary McLeod Bethune Statue in Lincoln Park. She had been on the run for seven days, never staying in one place for longer than a few hours. She'd nearly been caught the first day. She hadn't realised how many cameras there were in the city; how many ways she could be discovered. She knew what facial recognition could do, she'd studied the theory at the school. She'd bought street maps and had gone to an Internet Cafe to use a computer. It hadn't been hard to determine the areas within the city that were most likely to be covered by cameras; not a perfect system but better than running blind. She'd marked the locations on the map while she'd finished her hot chocolate and covered her internet trail the best she could; and then she'd left. Just another customer. If she ever had the chance, she would have to apologise to Amanda Reed for borrowing her identity to log into her blog and hotmail, but she'd wanted to learn what measures the people of the school had taken following her disappearance. According to Amanda, they had spoken to the police and filed a missing person report. Nothing that she had not expected.

Using her map and her aptitude for seeing through the patterns, she had managed to remain invisible for seven days. She'd barely eaten – only what she could purchase from street vendors during the their busiest times – and barely slept. At the end of the seventh day, she was exhausted, starved and filthy, and more lonely than she could remember being.

She'd gone to Lincoln Park, not to seek company, but to seek a moment's peace beneath the sky. It had been foolish of her and if she'd been thinking instead of feeling, she would have would have recognised her foolishness. By the the time she had noticed the four men approaching her – casually strolling from four points – logic could no longer help her. This new pattern had been revealed too quickly. There was no chance to change the constants.

And for the first time in her life, she knew fear.

And then _she_ appeared: flying across the grass like a cheetah; savage like a wolverine; protective like a wolf.

And for the first time, despite everything she had learned and seen,

Mouse knew

awe.

Sometimes there were unknown variables in the patterns: a plane destined to crash lands on a river; a man about to cross the street is suddenly pushed aside by another who is hit by a drunk; or a small woman with fierce eyes and a terrible smile appears like magic and disassembles four large men with guns and rescues a Mouse.

It was illogical, she knew, but she thought that the previous patterns were now just smaller parts of a much greater design – something that would alter the future of millions. Something that required her participation.

The idea terrified her – she was only a Mouse, after all.

* * *

"Who were they?" Ziva asked.

"Don't know – still don't. Whoever they were, they were armed and very well trained. Took a bullet in my arm. After I got Mouse to a hospital, I called Paul and asked him to check into it. He couldn't find anything either; which means someone didn't want to fess up or they weren't local."

The studio Mouse was staying at came into view: a large boxy grey building that had formerly served as a photography studio. The interior had been renovated: windows and doors had been replaced; additional plumbing had been installed for the open kitchen and expanded bathroom; floors repaired, sanded and varnished. Buffy had enjoyed the open space; it had allowed room to train and live comfortably – and it was sound proof, whether by design or simply because of the construction hadn't mattered, she could play music loud and yell at unseen opponents without attracting attention. Although Buffy had offered to take Mouse shopping a few times, Mouse hadn't changed much of the interior layout; she seemed comfortable with the furnishings Buffy had left behind.

Buffy pointed at the street that would access the building's parking area: a gravel lot dotted with weeds and small potholes. Ziva pulled in and parked. When Buffy didn't immediately open her door, Ziva glanced curiously at her. Buffy tapped her finger tips against her thigh and took a breath.

"Just need to tell you a few things about Mouse."

"Ok."

"First thing – she's very shy. She speaks very quietly and she doesn't like to be touched unless she touches you first." Ziva nodded. "She's also very smart – like they don't have a test for how smart she is. I guess when your IQ reaches a certain point it's not, um, measurable? Anyway, she doesn't speak like a professor or anything but, she can be a little mind boggling sometimes. If she does boggle, just ask her to simple it up; she's pretty fluent in Buffy speak."

Ziva held up her hand. "Wait. What is 'mind goggling' and 'simple up' and _what_ is 'Buffy speak', is that a language you have invented?"

Buffy giggled; Ziva looked very perplexed. "Sorry, my bad. 'Mind boggling' means hard to understand and 'simple it up' means making it easier to get. 'Buffy speak' is just . . . well, like, if I asked her to explain how guns worked, she'd probably start explaining the science; 'Buffy speak' means she'd tell me about the basics, you know: the bullet; how the gun fires; what kind of range it has – that kinda thing. Like she's talking to someone a 100 IQ points lower."

Ziva nodded, understanding now. "Ahh . . . So you believe that you are dumb."

"I'm not 'dumb', I'm just not endowed with a lot of brain power, that's all."

Ziva's stare was disapproving. "And yet, you have been doing whatever it is you do for how long and you are still alive? How many kills do you have?"

Buffy blinked. She wondered why she was surprised by the question. "Um, way too many to count – five hundred, maybe more?"

Ziva's eyes darted to Buffy's, looking for a glimpse of humour or exaggeration. She saw none. "Five hundred?" Her tone was incredulous.

Buffy shrugged. "Yeah . . . I've been a Slayer for thirteen years. And they were mostly small things, like vamps . . ." And why was she blushing?

Ziva shook her head. "You are a very odd woman."

"Heard a lot of that recently," Buffy muttered. "Anyway, you ready?"

Ziva nodded and opened her door.

* * *

**2828 10th Street North East**

The streets were surprisingly well lit but empty. The houses in the neighbourhood were quiet. It seemed contrary to what Ziva would have expected, considering the area. She studied the grey building that stretched approximately twenty six metres north to south and had an odd, tiered, roof. The windows were fixed and secured by horizontal bars. The door at the top of the steps was steel, likely with reinforced jambs. There was a handle with no lock. She frowned, wondering how Mouse got into her house.

Buffy noticed Ziva's examination of the building, ending with a frown, as they climbed the steps to the front door. "The glass is bullet proof. The door is solid steel mounted on steel and concrete. There's security cameras hidden in the walls and motion sensors on the ground. And, if I'm guessing the reason for the frown, the camera above the door and the speaker," she pointed at a discreetly placed mic', which, like the camera's, was built into the building, "are her locks. The mic' tests her voice and the camera uses that photo recognition stuff." She smiled sardonically. "This was the test for the place I'm in now. Geeks and their toys . . ."

Buffy stopped a few feet from the door and waited. "She knows we're here. I give her . . . three seconds."

It was actually five before the door open inward and a young woman, smiling shyly, greeted Buffy.

"Buffy."

"Hi, Mouse."

Mouse stepped forward and hugged Buffy; Buffy returned the hug carefully.

Ziva observed unobtrusively, a few feet away. While oddly appropriate, this aspect of Buffy was unexpected, especially after her admission of having five-hundred plus kills. She was so . . . gentle with Mouse. It resonated within Ziva, reminding her of times in her youth – almost buried by brutality – when Tali was alive to smile and bring joy to Ziva's heart and Ari was just a boy, not yet to bear and be consumed by tragedy and presumed betrayal. When life was laughter and laughter, life: symbiotic and self affirming. It was easy to forget this. With every year, month, week, day, hour, minute, second that passed.

Already, she was forgetting; not because she had chosen to do so, but because the young woman named Mouse, still held by and holding Buffy, had raised her head from Buffy's shoulder. Her eyes – a strange colour, caramel flecked with bronze – hesitantly met Ziva's; they were calm and questing.

Ziva smiled and nodded once.

"You have a friend," Mouse whispered.

Buffy chuckled. "I think the jury's still out on that one. What do you think – does she look like a friend?"

Mouse looked steadily into Ziva's eyes – surprising, considering Buffy's earlier caution. Ziva could not define her intent this time. She wasn't challenging or suspicious – certainly not trusting. She was intense; or rather, she reflected the intensity of the mind inside. For a moment, Ziva felt blind, incapable of discerning the design in Mouse's eyes; and then she remembered a similar look from a different pair of eyes – Abby's eyes – and she thought she understood: she was witnessing Mouse's inexplicable intelligence as she disassembled Ziva, looking for her answers.

Softly, Mouse said, "I think she looks like you: errant pieces of pain surrounding a sun. A hero who doesn't understand what a hero is, but could be nothing less." Mouse broke the embrace and stepped back into the studio. "Come in, Ziva David. It's very nice to meet you."

* * *

Mouse led them to the living room, such as it was, and sat in an oversized armchair. Buffy and Ziva sat on the couch: a little worn, but still comfortable.

Mouse crossed her legs and closed her eyes. A moment later, she opened her eyes and smiled.

"Would you like something to drink? Or eat? I made curry; it's not very good, but it's nutritious."

Buffy returned the smile. "No thank you. Actually, I wanted to ask you something."

Mouse's smile faded and her expression changed, now serious. "Ask me, then."

"We're working on something – a few things, actually – and I wondered if you would like to help. But . . . there's a catch."

"I would need to leave and go to the NCIS building," Mouse said. "And there will be other people there."

Buffy smiled sympathetically. "You remember what I told you, about me and doing the lonely?"

Mouse whispered, "If you can't touch, you can't be touched and if you can't be touched, you'll be forgotten. You won't forget me . . . right?"

Buffy got up and went over to Mouse. She knelt, her knees resting against the armchair, and placed her hands on Mouse's knees. "'Course I won't. But, I think there's other people who won't forget you either, if you trust me. Promise I won't leave you. And Ziva will be there and I trust her. _Aaa-nd_, there's someone at NCIS I think you might consider a 'compatible match to your uniqueness'."

The left side of Mouse's mouth rose a fraction. "Like you and Ziva?"

Ziva's eyes were wide, her brow creased and her lips parted, like she intended to say something but was unable to decide on an appropriate statement.

Buffy managed to stammer a response. "Uh . . . I guess we'll find out – it kinda goes with the friend thing."

"Men?" Mouse asked.

"One. Agent DiNozzo. He's . . . Do you remember those old movies we watched, with the men in the suits and the smiles? You know, the ones I said were charmers?" Mouse nodded. "He's kinda like that. Very nice to look at and very charming but a little like a kid sometimes. He's also one of the best agents there."

"A contradiction," Mouse stated. She looked nervously at Ziva. "Is it ok that I come?"

A question with an easy answer, considering the Director had already authorised it. "Of course. And don't worry about Tony, ah, Agent DiNozzo; if he bothers you, I will kick his ass."

Mouse looked back at Buffy. "I'll come . . . Why are you frowning?"

Buffy shook her head. "That was just easier than I thought it would be."

"You found me in a dream, like I found you. I believe that I was meant to be found so I could help you, like you have helped me. You act because it's necessary and if it's necessary for you than it's necessary for all of us. I know you do more than save Mouse's from men with no names; I know it's important. And you're my friend." Mouse looked at Ziva again and smiled. "And I would like more friends, I think; especially complex friends."

* * *

**NCIS**

Buffy was still trying to stop smiling when they reached the front doors of NCIS. Mouse had spent the entire car ride and the time they stopped for coffee and food, expounding Ziva's prowess behind the wheel of her Mini Coop.

"Your reflexes are extraordinary and your ability to observe multiple vantage points is magical . . ."

Ziva's laughter had initiated Buffy's.

"I wish there more hills and curves; I've never been on a rollercoaster."

Buffy regained control of her composure before they entered the building. Ziva led them to the security desk and smiled at the man behind the counter.

"Good evening, Karl. Did Director Vance call down about a guest?"

Karl grinned. "He did. Gotta tell ya, thought he was joking." He saw the visitor's badge Buffy had clipped to the zipper of her jacket and turned his grin on Mouse. "So, you must be Mouse. Such a small name for such a pretty young woman." Mouse's eyes widened comically. "If you have your ID, I'll take down your essentials and snap a photo."

Buffy put her arm around Mouse's back and led her to the desk.

While Mouse was getting her visitors badge, Ziva stepped to the side and observed. Karl was right – Mouse was a pretty young woman; the aesthetic qualities were subtle though and (as some people had referred to Ziva) exotic. Mouse's eyes were deep set and thickly lashed; her lips were full but small and her top lip was slightly larger than the bottom; her nose was straight; her tan skin smooth; and there was a subtle prominence to her cheek bones. She had a large bone structure yet she was lean – perhaps too lean. She was certainly curvier than Ziva or Buffy. There were other characteristics that were endearing as well: the short auburn hair (Ziva thought the style was called a 'Pixie Cut'); the simple clothing in simple colours (Mouse seemed to like reddy browns and black); the lack of make-up or jewellery; the round glasses in thin wire frames . . .

Ziva shifted her focus and smiled as Buffy and Mouse joined them. "Are we ready?"

Mouse clipped her badge to the end of the sleeve and nodded. "I don't think I've ever had a photo taken that doesn't make me look ill."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Wait 'til we get downstairs, I'll show you my driver's licence."

* * *

**Abby's Lab**

Ziva entered Abby's lab and set the drinks on the evidence table. Buffy and Mouse had stopped to use the washroom; before she'd gone in, Buffy had caught Ziva's attention.

"Think you could warn them about the new recruit and her peculiarities? Tony's probably gonna freak her out."

Ziva had nodded. "I will make sure he doesn't."

Ziva approached Abby and touched her lightly on the shoulder. "Abby."

Abby's intense focus remained on the screen of her monitor. "Hey. CAF-POW!"

"On the table behind you."

"Where's Buffy?"

"Coming. I need to speak with you and Tony first."

Abby's head turned; she winced at a twinge in her neck muscles. "Ok. DiNozzo! Get your ass in here!"

Tony appeared, dishevelled and obviously not quite awake. "What? You find something? Ziva . . . " His head tilted a fraction. "What the hell took so long?"

Ziva backed up to lean against the evidence table and crossed her arms. "Buffy and I stopped to pick up a friend."

Tony looked around; Abby mimicked him. "So, where are they?"

"There is something I need to discuss with you first. Buffy's friend is very shy and she doesn't trust . . . men" She waved off Tony's comment. "She was and may still be a target – Buffy doesn't know of who, and her sources in the Department of Defense and Justice have denied any involvement. She was almost captured five months ago but Buffy rescued her. She has had a difficult time: she lost both parents in a mugging, spent years in a psychiatric hospital and recently lost two friends."

"Great. So why's she here?" Tony asked rhetorically.

"Because, she is a genius with . . . many things. Buffy said that her intelligence is un . . ." Ziva frowned. "Not measurable? She has been working with the government and the Guardians."

"What does Vance think of this?" Tony asked.

"Buffy has already spoken to him. He is fine with it."

Abby's head tilted and she looked inquisitively at Ziva. "Why was she in a hospital?"

Ziva paused before answering; she wasn't as comfortable as Buffy with discussing the secrets of strangers, not unless it related to a case. Perhaps, considering Mouse's difficulties with social environments, it would be better for her to explain a little, though. "She went to a hospital after her parents were killed. It was there that she was diagnosed with depression, anxiety disorder and . . . Aspergure?"

"Asperger's," Abby suggested.

"That was it. She spent another four years in a school with other people like her – very smart people. I believe that she was completing her education as well as working on other projects – for the government."

Abby nodded; she understood better than most what the diagnoses implied. "So, where is she?"

Ziva smiled, not particularly surprised by Abby's easy acceptance. She turned her head and focused on Tony with narrowed, challenging eyes. "You will be nice; I told her that I would kick your ass if you are not."

Tony's answering look of innocence was not reassuring. "I am always a gentleman."

Ziva stepped closer until only inches separated them. "Mouse is Buffy's friend. They are close and I suspect that Buffy is very protective."

Tony's expression softened. "I'll be nice – promise."

Ziva nodded and turned to approach the door; it opened before she reached it and Buffy, followed very closely by Mouse, stepped into the room. "I was just coming-"

Buffy smiled. "Ah-huh." She glanced at Abby and Tony. "I brought some help. Abby, agent DiNozzo, this is-" She moved to one side – Mouse mirrored her. Buffy sighed. "One sec'." She turned and tried to catch Mouse's eyes. "Hey, it's all good." She turned to stand beside Mouse and took her hand. "Try this again. This is Mouse."

Abby smiled; it was sweet and warm. "Hi."

Tony kept it simple – a smile and a wave.

Buffy glanced from person to person and smirked. "Ok. Awkward silence. I'll grab the rest of the stuff." As she turned for the door, she realised that Mouse's hand was still firmly attached to her own. "Um, Mouse? Kinda need my hand."

Mouse blushed and stammered, "S-sorry."

Ziva approached her, hands at her sides. "Perhaps Abby could show you her lab?"

Abby nodded enthusiastically. "Sure. It's not big or anything, but it's mine. Why don't we start . . . over here."

* * *

After Mouse had settled beside Abby, Buffy had gone into the office to check her e-mail. As expected, a message was waiting.

"First things first." She opened her first coffee and drank a quarter of it; opened her large bag sour _Skittles_ and leaned the bag against a book titled _Stable Isotope Forensics_; unlaced her boots and let them fall to the floor: now, she was ready.

Buffy read slowly through the e-mail she'd received from Giles. He was depressingly thorough in his research and had included images as well as excerpts from (old musty) books.

Memories flitted through her head, wailing like the spirits of torture victims.

She rubbed her temples and gathered herself; pushed up from the chair onto feet that felt like wet clay and wandered into the lab.

Three and a half years ago. Rome. She hadn't wanted to be involved in anything major, just wanted to indulge for a while. And then she had met and befriended Bishop Anthony Dumas. Dumas had been a friend to Emily Rice, Buffy's doppelganger for a time before the war had made it too dangerous for her to continue the ruse. Bishop Dumas had witnessed Emily's death and her miraculous resurrection. From there he had uncovered a cabal of holy men who weren't what they seemed. They hadn't been men at all. The men had been killed and what had replaced them were anything but Holy. Shapeshifters. Their purpose was obvious. The depth of their ingenuity had not been. Another Slayer and a Witch were added to the death count; in their new guises, they had surprised the Slayers assisting Buffy and Bishop Dumas in their efforts to eliminate the threat – three more Slayers dead. Buffy and the remaining Slayers had located the agents working with the cabal and Bishop Dumas had constructed a plan to dispose of the things that had murdered servants of God and had dared to impersonate them after their deaths. At midnight, May 3rd 2006, Buffy and the Slayers executed twenty three known allies of the cabal, while Bishop Anthony Dumas, her friend, walked into a secret meeting of the impersonators and detonated a very small but thorough explosive.

And for Bishop Dumas' brave and selfless act, the church had essentially disowned him.

There was more to the story, but this was all that Buffy told.

"I'm not getting the connection," said Tony.

Buffy answered slowly. "The connection . . ." She found the image of the close-up on the cockroach with the Cuneiform 'printed' on its carapace. "Is this. Translated it means _Nergal_. _Nergal_ was the Sumerian god of plague; married some chick who was goddess of the underworld. Like most of the powers, he had kids. One of those kids is called a Plague Rat, kinda the runt of the litter. Looks like a . . . you know those half man half horse things?"

"A centaur," Mouse murmured. "From the ancient Greek, _Kéntauroi_. The body of a horse and the torso of a man or woman." Mouse's head ducked behind Abby when Tony and Ziva glanced at her in apparent amusement.

Buffy smiled briefly and continued. "Plague Rats don't have any human or horse parts but – same idea. The bottom part is cockroach-y and the top part is rat-y. The live in sewers, tunnels, that sort of thing. 'Bout as big as a Great Dane and not hard to kill, if you can catch them. Oh, and they attract bugs like Lindsay Lohan attracts Paparazzi. It's really . . . disturbing. There's like, thousand of them."

Tony crossed his arms and leaned back against the evidence table. "Ah-huh. Still not getting the connection."

Buffy cocked an eyebrow and gazed at Tony with pointed irritation. "I was catching my breath. When Plague Rats die, they kind of turn into this mushy goop. The goop's filled with bug eggs. They hatch and start looking for something warm to infect with whatever disease they're carrying, only its mutated or something – meaning, the virus doesn't just make people sick, it grows. The Guardians think that this is how new Plague Rats are created."

Abby looked horrified. "You mean, Gibbs and McGee have giant mutated bugs growing inside them." Her voice rose in panic. "We have to get them out. How do we get them out? Does the hospital know?"

Tony, for once, refrained from making the obvious movie reference; it was horrific enough on the screen, but in reality, it denoted the death of two men he . . . respected. Before he could ask the obvious again, Buffy glanced sharply at him and began speaking.

"The _Falsk Möta_ – the Shapeshifters – and the Plague Rats are cousins. The _Möta_ have kind of . . . _special_ abilities that lets them control the Plague Rats. They used them in Rome; I think the idea was to send a few into the Vatican to spread a disease or two and stir things up – like a distraction, so they could do what they had to; you know, kill Archbishops and take their places."

Buffy looked at Abby. In a softer tone, she added, "The Guardians haven't found a way to kill them when they're, you know, inside someone. They tried on two occasions – once in London and once in Berlin. But, they also didn't have you and Mouse and the science-y types at the hospital helping them either."

Abby's eyes were watering; they were angry as well. Buffy couldn't blame Abby; she had introduced them to the Underworld.

Mouse, less timid now, stepped beside Abby and took her hand; squeezed it. Abby looked at her, startled. Mouse boldly met her eyes. "We can figure it out. It's just another pattern. We'll figure it out."

Abby offered a watery smile and nodded. "Right. You're right. Music – must have music – and CAF-POW!"

Tony was already in motion. "Back in a sec'."

While Abby and Mouse attacked the Guardians' files with renewed vigour, Buffy went and sat beneath the windows. Ziva joined her and nudged her shoulder with her own. "Hey." Buffy glanced at her impassively. "Would it not help if we had more information? Perhaps, a sample from the source?"

Buffy frowned. "You mean . . . " She nodded, considering the possibility. "There are a lot of tunnels and sewers in Washington. Means, lots of rats and mole people." She grimaced. "Just need to figure out a way to-" she shivered, "-attract one."

Ziva stood and offered her hand. Buffy accepted it and pulled herself up slowly. "I will help."


	6. Of A Divine Roach And    Part 2

**Of A Divine Roach And A Brilliant Mouse, Part 2**

There's lots of rats down here  
You can see the whites of their eyes  
They got sharp teeth  
Deep breath  
And lots of diseases

People say you shouldn't stay down here too long  
Lose your sense of light and dark  
Lose your sense of smell

I tell you what I'm gonna do  
Gonna make love to a water rat or two  
and breed a family  
they'll be called the survivors

You know why ?  
No  
They're gonna survive

I'll see you in the sewer darling  
And don't be late.

The Stranglers

**00:30 Hours, Wednesday October 28th, 2009 Abby's Lab**

Mouse sipped from her Orange soda and tapped her heels against the legs of the stool she hadn't moved from since she'd arrived. They had gathered in the lab for something Agent DiNozzo called a 'campfire', essentially, an info' swap. Between sips of beverages, they took turns revealing what they had discovered so far. Mouse remained quiet, watched and listened intently, as the information was disclosed. Although she had been apprised of the generalities of the case, she was quick to fill in the specifics of each aspect in her head, as additional data was revealed. Agent DiNozzo had turned on a small voice recorder and had started.

"Ok. I followed up on the info I got from Manassas. The hangar is owned by Andrew J. Osbourne. He runs a shipping business that specialises in the secure shipment of valuable cargo, including medical supplies, anywhere in the world. I talked to Osbourne; he said that they have numerous smaller clients who use their services on occasion, and one primary client: _Savitri Pharmaceuticals_. Osbourne made them sound like they were_Pfizer_ or something. Apparently, they provide a lot of relief, both foreign and domestic and they're working with the US Government to improve medical support for the troops. Haven't looked into them yet; thought I'd wait for business hours. But that's not the best part." He paused for dramatic effect. "At 4:00am on the 22nd, Osbourne's partner, David Kerley, took a shipment of vaccines to Ottawa. Kerley was an experienced pilot and his co-pilot was ex-forces. The other four men aboard were security agents – I ran them all and they're all clean. The plane landed but only one man deplaned and he didn't match the physical description of any of the men on board."

Buffy tapped her pen against her bottom lip. "So, they were killed at the hangar and their bodies were moved before I got there or they were dumped from the plane on the way."

"What was being shipped?" Ziva asked. "Could this be financially motivated?"

Tony flipped through his notes. "Yeah, sure. Problem is – it was all accounted for. Didn't look like any of the cases had been touched. That was all Osbourne had. The RCMP are looking into it."

Buffy lowered her pen. "So, the plane's still there?" Tony nodded. "Cool. I need to make a phone call." She got up, phone in hand and retreated to the hall outside Abby's lab.

Eyes followed her briefly; Tony frowned curiously and continued. "Oh-kay. Ziva – whaddya got?"

Ziva was digging through her own notes; triumphant, she found the page she needed. "Harry Winkler and Owen McDowell did work for _Savitri Pharmaceuticals_ a month ago. They installed security in the executive offices. One of _Savitri's_ lawyers, Ragan Zell, mediated the deal. They were very well paid for their services."

While Ziva shuffled to a new page in her stack of notes, Mouse turned and began typing on the keyboard of the computer she was using. Ziva glanced over the page in her hand for a moment and continued.

"Both Owen McDowell and Harry Winkler have clean records except for one speeding ticket and a few parking violations. The _Smith & Wesson 9mm_was registered to McDowell; I don't believe that it has ever been fired.

"Personal and business financials were modest until four months ago when they received payments for . . . five security installations – there are no records of who exactly had the security installed and I . . . well, I am not McGee. Although the money was deposited, the majority of it was withdrawn on the 21st of October – the day before the attack at _Winkler's Safe Store_. I am assuming that the money Buffy found in the box is the same."

"And . . . then there is this." Ziva reached for a folded piece of paper; she unfolded it and began to read. "_Owen, There is enough money here to get you and Elsie out of the country. Do so. Visit your mom's family in Glasgow for a while and then take a trip to Belize. You'll find an account number and password on the flash drive for the British Caribbean Bank – you know how to get into the file. Get new names and new faces. Do not contact anyone from home. I hope that will be enough. Please trust me, Owen. I know I've been acting crazy recently but there's a good reason for it. Stay away from Savitri and the others we worked for. I'm sorry, Owen, but if you're going to have a chance, I need to keep them busy and you need to leave._" Ziva refolded the page. "It is signed, _Harry_, and the date it was written is October 21st, 2009."

Buffy returned; she seemed very pensive. She approached the table Ziva was perched on and stopped to look over her shoulder at the open file she had on her lap. "Did I hear something about a letter?"

Ziva picked up the folded page and held it up for Buffy. "It is for Owen McDowell from Harry Winkler. It seems that he has had his own suspicions that he and Owen were in danger."

Buffy opened the letter and read it. She frowned. "Owen's girlfriend, Elsie, does anybody know where she is? 'Cause if the people Winkler was afraid of know about her, they'll either use her to draw Owen out – when he gets better – or kill her. Or, worse, infect her and send her to the hospital – and that would be messy."

Buffy opened her phone, typed in a number and held it to her ear. She winced every time the phone 'rang'. Courtney, she knew, was a deep sleeper; she was also the best person for this particular job: she was female, sensitive, persistent and she already knew the 'what'. Finally, a sleepy voice answered.

"Agent Krieger."

"Hi, Courtney. I'm _so_ sorry for waking you up but I need outside help and since NCIS is down two and we're trying to figure out how to make them better, you're the best person for the job . . ."

"What do you need, Buffy?"

Just like that. No grumbling or grumping – not even a hint of annoyance. And this was one of a plethora of reasons why Buffy loved Courtney.

"You remember the stuff we got from the locker?"

In the background, Buffy could hear sounds of movement: bare feet on wood; rustling cloth, a door opening –

"Ow."

- and the sound of flesh striking a hard object.

Buffy contained her snort of laughter. "Turn on a light, Courtney."

"The light was on," Courtney muttered. "Do you mean the stuff you nearly blew yourself up for? Of course."

Buffy figured she deserved the pointed response. During her time with Courtney and her team, Buffy had preached one rule above all others – 'Don't die.' "Yeah, that stuff."

A voice in the background yelled out, "What the hell, Court'? Tell your damned boyfriend to call at normal people hours."

Courtney's breath hissed in an annoyed sigh. "My brother, Jeffery. He's staying with me while he looks for work. Hang on? . . . It's not my boyfriend, it's my girlfriend . . . That shut him up. What did you find?"

"Oh – a letter from Harry Winkler to Owen McDowell; basically a 'Get out of Dodge' kinda deal. Winkler left everything we found to Owen. Seems he was afraid for his own life and wanted Owen and his girlfriend to get out of the country. Looks like he had it all planned. After what happened at the house and the storage place? I'm thinking he was on to something. Owen's safe, for now – other than dying from some horrible disease, I mean." When Buffy saw Abby's horrified expression, she quickly added, "Which we are going to cure. Thing is, Owen's girlfriend . . ."

"You think she's at risk," Courtney finished. "I have her information on my Blackberry. I'll call Erikson and Greer and we'll find her. Where would you like me to take her?"

"How 'bout the hospital; it's safer than most places, right now. I'll call ahead and ask if she can at least _see_ Owen. I'm sorry, this might be nothing, but I really don't want another dead person on my conscience – I'm already trying to make room."

The jingle of keys, the zipping of a coat. "You're being gloomy again, Buffy. Stop it. We'll go and get Elsie and everything will be fine."

Buffy sighed. "You know what I miss? Movie nights."

Buffy could hear Courtney's smile. "Me too. Maybe next week, at you're place?"

In the background, "Tell your girlfriend I want to meet her . . . And tell her not to call so damned –"

Sound of a door slamming.

"Sorry about that," Courtney said. "So – movie night? You're place?"

Buffy grinned. "Deal . . . Please be careful."

"Don't worry, I've been well trained. I'll call from the hospital."

"Good luck." Buffy ended the call and fought the urge to leave and join Courtney and her team, like she did every time they went out on assignment.

"Courtney is going?" Ziva asked.

Buffy nodded. "Yep. She's good; so is her team. They'll be fine."

Ziva smiled reassuringly. "You trained them, yes?" Buffy nodded. "Then they will be fine."

Buffy smiled back; she could tell it needed some work. "Oh, before I forget, which is totally likely considering I haven't slept since Saturday, I called the Guardians in Ottawa and asked them to take a look at the plane and the missing people. They're gonna call back tomorrow. I guess I should call the hospital and tell them to expect company. After that, is there anything you guys need?"

"You could scan the rest of the photos for me," Ziva said.

"Ok."

"And then, maybe, grab some coffee," DiNozzo added. Buffy raised an eyebrow and smirked. "What? You were looking for something to do . . ."

* * *

**02:00 Hours, Abby's Lab**

Buffy went into the lab, stretching her stiff muscles. Abby's and Mouse's eyes were fixated on their monitors while their fingers tap-tapped the keys on their keyboards. Buffy smiled; Mouse had adapted quickly. She brushed Mouse's shoulder with her fingertips; Mouse jumped and teetered on her stool. Before she could fall, Buffy caught her in her arms and immediately and earnestly began apologising.

"Shit. I'm sorry! I should've said something first. Sorry . . ."

Mouse relaxed in Buffy's arms though her heart beat violently against her chest. "That's ok; it's you."

Abby turned to glare at Buffy. "Where's your bell? See, this is why you need to wear a bell. You could give someone a heart attack."

Buffy smiled meekly. "Sorry. Had to take it off before we went out, just in case I needed to be stealthy. Pretty hard to be stealthy when you sound like Santa's reindeer." She curled around Mouse's shoulder. "You ok?"

Mouse straightened her glasses and nodded. "Yes, I am. I like Abby's idea, though."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "I'll put my bell back on in a sec'. Just wanted to know if you guys had found anything yet."

Abby turned on her chair. "Yep. But you're not gonna like it. We have some high quality audio of rats talking 'rat'. I played around with it and created a loop. I can burn it to a CD but you'll need a portable CD player with good speakers to take down with you."

"And a large quantity of blood and a way to keep it warm," Mouse added.

Buffy closed her eyes; her lips curled sourly. "You're right – this is gonna suck." She opened her eyes again, squeezed Mouse's shoulders and stepped back to lean against the evidence table. "How about a way to get a sample without killing the Plague Rat? It's hard enough catching them with all their creepy little friends around."

Mouse turned on her stool to face Buffy. "The researchers working with the Guardians haven't found a toxin or pharmaceutical that has any effect and even if they had, it wouldn't be wise to use one if we want a clean sample. You could always take fluids."

Abby nodded thoughtfully. "I'm sure I could find a 7 gauge syringe."

Buffy crossed her arms and stared blandly at Abby. "Then what? Ask it to do a good deed and give blood?" Neither Abby nor Mouse answered. "Never mind. If you can get me a few syringes? This thing isn't gonna be too happy when I jump on its . . . whatever you call it. They may not be big, but they're squirmy and slimy."

Abby's nose wrinkled in disgust; and then she grinned. "Glad it's not me."

Mouse glanced at Abby and then at Buffy. She had previously been exposed to Buffy's particular vernacular and her dry and often self-effacing humour. She had not had the opportunity to experience these characteristics with other people, especially people like Abby, Ziva and Agent DiNozzo. Their dialogue was a connection that bridged sex, race or intelligence and created a complex interpersonal music. While she couldn't add her own consonance to the composition, listening to it brought rapture to her, with the same poignancy the architecture of every enigma did.

Mouse realised that Buffy was looking at her, smiling softly, with a question in her eyes – she smiled back. "Once you take the blood you need to bring it to the hospital quickly; the cells will be begin to deteriorate after twenty four hours. The researchers have provided measures to ensure that it lasts for that length of time but haven't found a way to extend the longevity."

Buffy nibbled on her bottom lip. "Ok. Soon as the stores open, I'll go out and buy a CD player, batteries, some pigs' blood and something to keep it warm. I'll go down when I have everything."

Abby, who looked tired and overwrought, stepped closer to Buffy. "I don't want to jinx us but are you sure that there's one of these rat things in the tunnels? 'Cause, you'd think that something like that would've been noticed; I mean, they have security down there, and repairmen . . ."

Buffy cautiously placed her hands on Abby's shoulders; there was something in her eyes, something that made Abby shiver: like an oath sworn on the grave of a loved one.

"I spent some quality time in the tunnels and sewers when I got here. I'm pretty familiar with what's down there and I saw the signs, in all their rotted glory, that said – I am Plague Rat, hear me squeal. I'll find one and I'll get what you need. Ok?"

Abby smiled weakly. "Wow, you can be really scary when you wanna be – a good scary but, wow."

Buffy lowered her hands and crossed them behind her. "Make me a list? And I'll go sort through what I need."

* * *

Ziva's eyes followed Buffy as she left Abby's office; it was one of the few opportunities that she'd had to study Buffy since she'd decided – firmly – to enter the tunnels below Washington, alone, in pursuit of the creature that had become the source of much horror and now, possibly, hope.

Buffy's adamant, almost volatile, affirmation was a puzzle to Ziva; or, maybe, another aspect of the puzzle that was Buffy Summers.

Intuitively, Ziva considered the logic of Buffy's decision to be a contradiction. She had stated that, since the tunnels accommodated other threats, it was too dangerous for Ziva or the others to accompany her. If this were true, then how could it not be even more dangerous to traverse the cramped, uncharted territory of unnamed enemies alone? Ziva had not been into the tunnels or sewers but she understood the risks.

It was the emotional factor of Buffy's decision that confused Ziva the most and left her with three brazen and unresolved 'whys?' nattering in her head.

'Why – does she seem unconcerned about personal relations one moment, but show such concern for the welfare and opinions of the same people the next?'

'Why – does she risk so much for people when the responsibility isn't hers?'

'Why – does she feel compelled to work alone?'

When McGee had come to visit Ziva at her home, after she had been released from the hospital, he had apprised her of the events following her attack. He had seemed particularly interested in the security measures Buffy had taken while making her phone call. Ziva remembered that McGee had said that Buffy had used a name – Ronin. Ziva knew that name: a Samurai without a lord – a warrior without a home.

Yes, three more aspects of the puzzle.

There was a fourth; it was more general but comprised everything the three questions didn't –

Who was this woman?

There was a spectrum of Ziva's perception of her co-workers – and friends – that began with Abby and arched to Gibbs. Abby displayed her emotions and sentiments like she displayed her style – boldly; Gibbs rarely displayed either.

Buffy seemed to be the spectrum – a constantly changing myriad of emotions and intent: she had been almost comedic as she had confronted nine adversaries at the hangar in Manassas; had bordered on disrespectful during the meeting on Monday; had exhibited paranoia in regard to authority, especially as represented by the government and military; had been fierce – Ziva remembered Buffy's snarl, could still feel it shiver across her skin – at _Winkler's Safe Store_ during the attack; and cavalier about disposing a bomb – for the sake of evidence.

Ziva shook her head. She wondered what Gibbs thought, what he would think, when he had been apprised of the events of the last sixteen hours.

Ziva leaned closer to Tony and whispered, "Tony, can you sign out surveillance equipment?"

Tony continued typing, in his own plodding way. "Yeah. Why?"

Ziva glanced through the clear doors that connected the office to the lab; Buffy was talking with Abby and Mouse. "I need a tracker and laptop."

Tony stopped typing and leaned back in his chair. "Ah. I see . . . Actually, I really don't."

"Buffy is going into the tunnels without backup –"

Realisation dawned quickly on Tony's face. "And you want to track her. You remember how well that worked last time?"

"Never the less," Ziva stated.

Tony leaned closer and when he spoke, it was in the same conspiratorial tone that Ziva had adopted. "Two conditions, and I mean this, Agent David: you will not follow her into the tunnels and, if she finds out, you take all the blame."

"What if she gets lost?"

"You really think she's gonna get lost? If she does, call me and wait until I get there. We'll find her together."

Ziva nodded. "Agreed. I'll need to get the laptop to my car and plant the tracker on her vest before she puts it on again."

"Give me your keys; I need something from my car anyway. And we definitely need more coffee."

"Mm. There must be an easier way to stay awake."

* * *

**03:30 Hours, Abby's Lab**

Buffy had sorted the contents of her bag into two piles: weapons and accessories and everything that she didn't want to smell like sewage and . . . stuff. She threw her clothing into a plastic bag and set it aside. Abby and Mouse had asked if they could join the team at the hospital after Buffy had recovered the – disgusting, icky – fluids from the Plague Rat. Buffy had called and spoken to Wendy; the offer had been welcomed with weary enthusiasm. Wendy had also warned her that she would need to go through decontamination before she would be allowed in the hospital. She was happy that she'd brought extra clothes. Hospital scrubs really clashed with . . . well, just about everything.

She'd asked Abby and Mouse if they could bring her clothes. Left her lots of room in her rucksack for the items on the list they'd made her. Abby had also provided two 7 gauge syringes and a biohazard bag to put them in when Buffy was done. The last part of the plan, other than shopping and the actual plan, had been a phone call to Commander Paris with a somewhat illicit request. She didn't think he'd blinked an eye when she'd asked – not that she could see him, but still, she hadn't expected an unhesitant, "Ok". Not that she was asking for bombs that went 'BOOM', just a few that turned things to ash without causing structural damage. It would kind of defeat the purpose if she got what she needed only to end up buried with it.

She zipped up her rucksack and pushed it aside. Sat cross-legged with her back straight. Closed her eyes and rolled her head a few times. Finally, she lay her hands, palm up, on her knees and breathed . . . Preparation by not preparing. One of her favourite quotes advised much the same:

'Do not be tense, just be ready, not thinking but not dreaming, not being set but being flexible. It is being wholly and quietly alive, aware and alert, ready for whatever may come.' (A)

* * *

**09:30 Hours, Undisclosed Location, Washington DC**

Ziva opened her window an inch and rubbed the inside of her windshield with a piece of paper towel. Beside her, the laptop emitted a quiet beep that indicated that Buffy was still moving deeper into the tunnels. This was her second attempt; she had returned a few minutes after her first entry and, looking sheepish, had asked if Ziva had matches or a lighter to light the Bunsen burners with. Ziva had teased Buffy only a little; she too was exhausted. She remembered only the pertinent moments during their time at the Union Meat Co., Radio Shack, Ranger Surplus and a variety store that might have been named 'Joes', though she had certainly been cognizant enough to be surprised when Commander Paris had arrived bearing four compact incendiary bombs with remote detonators. Perhaps even more surprising though, considering Buffy's earlier experience with explosives, was her intense focus as the Commander explained how to set and detonate the charges. She had repeated Commander Paris' instructions precisely and was not fooled when he attempted to trick her by altering one of his directions. Ziva had watched and only asked one question – why?

"I want the Plague Rat and it's little friends ashy when I'm done. Don't think Washington needs an outbreak of roach-itis or rat mange."

She was satisfied with that answer. It was better to eliminate a possible threat while it was within your grasp than to have it bite you on the ass later.

The beeping on the laptop had become intermittent. Ziva reached for her thermos of tea and her mug.

Now they waited.

* * *

**December, 2008, Beach House, Bristol Maine**

"What happened in New York?"

"I thought you weren't gonna pick my brain anymore, Doctor Montague."

"Buffy, don't be petulant."

"I'm _not_ being petulant."

"And I'm not picking your brain. I have a morbid curiosity, that's all."

"Ya' think? Anyway, I've told you most of it."

"You haven't told me why you stopped playing femme fatale and decided to terrorise the underworld."

"Um, you sure? Coulda sworn I did . . ."

"Why did you have tests for HIV, Hep B and Hep C? You said that you always used protection, right?"

"The last night I went to the club, someone dropped something in my drink; I was lucky, the effects didn't last long. Still couldn't walk a straight line . . . Regained my senses in Terrance Firths' bedroom with another woman. Wasn't wearing much but I hadn't done anything; at least, I'm pretty sure I didn't. I punched Terrance – broke his jaw – and grabbed the woman.

"Few weeks later, my friend Harry found out he was HIV positive. The only person he'd ever had sex with was Terrance."

"Bastard . . ."

"Yeah. When I heard, I wanted to hunt him down, maybe drop him in a nest of Gavrock Spiders. Penny stopped me, talked me into finding the woman I'd rescued and going to the cops with her and Harry . . . I felt so bad for Penny, she and Harry had been best friends for fifteen years. She was always looking out for him, you know? When Harry came out, she went to the clubs with him and helped him get comfortable with the big change. She was there when he told his dad and she was there to clean him up afterward. Guess she felt like what happened was her fault, 'cause she wasn't there when Terrance charmed Harry and then screwed him.

"When people heard about Terrance, they went to the cops as well. Not sure what's happening with that. 'Course, Penny's looking after Harry. Probably will until . . . well, until she won't be able to anymore.

"After that, I started losing it – you know: the sensory overload; the voices; the dreams . . ."

"Why then? What changed so dramatically?"

"Cassandra, you're doing it again."

"I'm not! Not intentionally, at least. I told you-"

"You're morbidly curious. Yeah, got it. Could've been a lot of things: the partying, the lack of sleep, the sex; finding out about Harry. I don't know. Maybe I'd been holding it all in, like everything else – you know, trying so hard to be normal . . . Probably wasn't such a good idea . . . Now you know."

"Buffy, if you expect judgement, I'm going to disappoint you. My species are much like a sexual virus; worse, in a way, because a virus has no conscience."

"Huh?"

"I'm half Nymph. I am, in fact, the only one of my kind."

"Huh?"

"Do you know what a Nymph is?"

"Uh, hot naked chick who likes getting laid?"

"That-that isn't inaccurate. They are very beautiful but they possess other characteristics as well that assist in sating their appetites. They can alter perception, especially emotional perception; they can read a man's appetites with a touch; and their seduction is irresistible and unforgettable. Because they have difficulties producing offspring, their consorts are often kept for months."

"What happens to them? The con things."

"They're never the same. Many spend the remainder of their lives seeking a similar pleasure and never finding it; some end their lives.

"My father managed to escape them. My mother, who was rare among her sisters, had, in her way, loved my father. She sent me to him before I could mature into a pure Nymph. My mother's sisters didn't appreciate her sense of compassion and cursed my father. He was killed by a falling tree when I was six months old. A day later, a witch found me beside my father's body. She adopted me and taught me her craft. I was never very good at it. But we discovered I had other talents, which have been very useful.

"When I was in my forties I found my way back to the Nymphs and repaid them for my father's death. I cursed them with bareness – ten years for every man whose death they had been responsible for. If I'd had the power, I would have locked their borders for the same number of years."

"W-wait. You're a Nymph'-"

"Half."

"- and 'forties'? How old are you?"

"I was born April 1st, 1899 . . . I'm one hundred and nine years old . . . Are you giggling?"

"Sorry. Just . . . Wow. Hope I look that good when I'm in my hundreds."

* * *

Despite her location and the purpose of being in said location, Buffy smiled. Cassandra was a constant source of surprise. Buffy missed her.

'Explains why you've called her so much, huh? I'm a bad friend.'

The smell of warm blood was actually pleasant amidst the other, fouler, smells. She pulled her watch out of the pocket of her hoodie – four and a half hours. She put her watch back and took the Vogue magazine she'd brought with her from her rucksack; curled it slightly and began to fan the blood. Even though she couldn't hear the complete range of the rat communications emitted from the CD player, she could feel them in her head; a nagging ache between her eyes and ears.

* * *

Ziva started her car and let it idle. She placed her open book – _Fahrenheit 451_ – face down across her thigh and opened her thermos of black tea sweetened with a little honey. Tea was comforting in the chill and, unlike coffee, did not cause her muscles to spasm or her tendons to tense. She poured hot tea into her cup; screwed the lid back on the thermos and put it on the empty passenger seat.

The clock in Ziva's car indicated that six hours had passed since Buffy had entered Washington's underground. The red dot on the laptop's screen indicated that she was still at the juncture of four connecting tunnels.

She turned on the heat and then the radio – just in time for a news update.

_". . . of two Washington men were discovered 10 miles south of Nepean Ontario. The men were identified as David B. Kerley, one of the founders of Turgon Enterprises, and Saul Buchanan who was a security officer for Turgon Enterprises-"_

Someone knocked quietly on Ziva's window. "_Ben Zonah_!" She put her tea down and snatched her wallet from the dashboard. Twice, already, she had been approached by the local cops with questions. Scowling, she turned her head . . . and froze. The individual staring back at her through the window was not a cop. It was a young woman; a strange looking young woman. Ziva wasn't entirely sure if the woman wasn't one of Buffy's_mamash suit_: very pronounced cheekbones; skin the hues of ice; round green eyes; very narrow chin; small mouth – smiling, enough to reveal extended canines and the tip of a pink tongue.

Ziva lowered the window and lowered her hand to her gun. "Can I help you?" Brusque and matter of fact.

The woman smiled; she seemed amused that she had been asked. "I am Faatinah. I am a friend of the dark woman whose name is light. We like light, and warmth."

"_Who_ are you."

"I'm not a predator; the dark woman is a friend to us. I wish to speak, that is all."

Ziva's hand remained on her Sig but she gestured to the passenger door. "Join me."

While the woman walked lazily around the car, Ziva studied her surroundings. Two young men, who looked like any other young men except for their narrow jaws and pronounced cheekbones, were standing at the end of the alley, conversing animatedly. A young woman, who shared similar characteristics as the men, was leaning against the wall at the end of the alley. She was smoking a cigarette, blowing pale grey streams into the chill air.

Ziva's attention returned to the interior of the car when Faatinah eased gracefully into the passenger seat and closed the door.

"It is warm," Faatinah said.

Ziva's mouth opened to respond . . . and closed again. Unless she was mistaken, Faatinah was . . . purring?

"And again, I ask, _who are you_?"

Faatinah responded with the strangest laugh – like a repetition of high pitched cries. "I . . ." She became very still for a moment. "_We_ . . . are allies._We_ are here to fight with the dark woman when the playground becomes a place of blood." She leaned over to play with the dial on the radio. "I like your automobile; it is very small and entertaining. You are not her prey." She closed her eyes and breathed in the scents around her. "You are her . . . friend?"

"I believe that we are still deciding that. But I believe that we are allies, at least."

"Then you are my ally. I will give you something and you will give it to her."

Ziva bristled; she didn't like the arrogance of Faatinah's words or the poise of her cool, glassy gaze. "If you have something that you need me to tell her, by all means."

Faatinah's focus changed to the car's heat settings; she pressed the 'Max' button for the heat and grinned. "I don't mean to sound rude. Human speech is difficult for us – it is so . . . sober.

"If you would give a message to the dark woman from me? Tell her that our strong remain and we will cut throats with her when she asks. Tell her that the diseased are becoming many and tell her that we haven't forgotten our task." Faatinah looked intently at Ziva. "How proud are we to be the cats who safe guard the mouse?" She opened the passenger door. "Good-bye, pretty lady." Faatinah exited the car and closed the door before Ziva could respond.

* * *

Buffy's eyes opened slowly.

They were coming; she could hear the sounds of thousands of insect legs scurrying over stone; smell the rats; evidence of a larger presence assaulted all of her senses.

She stopped fanning the blood with her magazine; put it in her bag and zipped the bag up. She wiggled the syringes affixed to her thighs making sure they were still loose but secure. She'd duct taped the needle covers to her jeans and tied string around the barrels so, when she needed them, she could pull them free leaving the needle covers behind. Each barrel held 25cc; Abby had said that more was better. Apparently, the more Plague Rat gunk they had, the more tests they would be able to do, which made sense.

She turned off the Coleman burners and tossed the hot blood down the passage the chittering horde was approaching from.

'Think beaches and sun and Mai Tais.'

She checked the detonator in the pocket of her hoodie. Commander Paris had stated – firmly – that she would need to be at least twenty five meters from the source. Earlier, she'd estimated the distance and marked it on the tunnel wall with spray paint.

The sounds were louder; a chaotic chorus of ticks and scratches. The pain in her head began to shriek. She didn't remember this happening in London and Berlin when she'd hunted and killed the Plague Rats that had taken up residence there.

She did remember something like this happening in Rome.

* * *

**March, 2006, Outside the Vatican**

"Do you hear that, ma'am?"

"I think I'd hear that if I was deaf."

It wasn't a sound so much as a physical assault on the inside of her skull, targeting the cracked walls she hid her fears behind, the steel vaults that entombed her secrets and, worse still, her free will.

"We should go back," Anna said listlessly.

"_Si_," Katrina agreed. "_Si_. We can't . . . let's go back, ma'am. We . . . need to stop the priest or . . ." Katrina frowned. "_Merda!_ What is happening?"

Buffy knew. She'd been subjected to mental manipulation more than once. The Falsk Möta were attempting to control them as they had likely done to the witch and two slayers before they had killed them and assumed their identities. This assault wasn't subtle, it was painfully obvious. Like listening to the White Stripes on her MP3 player at full volume.

Anna's ear buds dangled around her neck; her iPod was on her belt. Buffy didn't ask permission: she stuck Anna's ear buds in her ears; took the iPod from the case and turned it on. When the iPod's display lit up, she pressed play and turned the volume to max'.

"What are you trying to do? Make me deaf?" Anna yelled; she was glaring at Buffy. And then understanding dawned in her eyes. Whoever, or whatever, had been digging in her brain with a dull scalpel had retreated hastily.

* * *

**Present Time, Current Place**

Buffy opened her bag, dug through the contents and pulled out her MP3 player. She closed the bag.

She turned on the MP3 player and plugged the ear buds in her ears. Hit play.

_"I cried to my daddy on the telephone  
how long now  
Until the clouds unroll and you come home  
the line went  
But the shadows still remain since your descent  
your descent  
The saints are coming, the saints are coming  
No matter how I try, I realise there's no reply . . ."_

'Great. Hope that's not an omen.'

When the assault on her brain stopped, she had thought that she had been successful. She had been, but not entirely. The assault returned but this time it seemed focused solely on Buffy's memories; memories she fought every day to forget.

Softly, she swore. The _Möta_ were in Washington, of that she was sure.

She held herself very still as the first of the rats and bugs heralded the arrival of the Plague Rat.

The _Möta_ were in Washington. Their presence suggested a few things. Considering their ability to mimic people – and in the case of the Elders, actually become an individual – they could be anyone, anywhere.

The horde of vermin now covered the floors and the lower third of the walls. She could feel bugs crawling up her jeans; hear the rats lapping at the blood.

She needed to contact her friends in the Underworld. She needed to find every damned _Möta_ and burn them to ash. The vampires weren't the threat, not in Washington. She suspected that they had already left to join the others from the States and around the world; whoever was in charge wouldn't want to risk exposing the men and women they had chosen to be turned to their cause, not with so many of the Guardians active. Buffy would have preferred the vamps – even this new breed; the _Möta_ were way scarier and there were just too many opportunities here to control and mimic people with power: military brass and government officials, for example. Maybe they already had.

She could see the Plague Rat now; half a second before it saw her. It was a break and she took it at a run. She propelled herself forward; bugs crunched under her feet; a rat's spine snapped. The Plague Rat's skeletal torso twisted indicating that it was preparing to flee: the ovoid body, carried on six skinny legs, swung around; its pink fingers, ending in cracked grimy nails, clawed at the air; its cloudy red eyes, constantly leaking urine yellow puss, bulged fanatically.

Buffy jumped. She landed across the shiny roach back and clung to it with her knees. She pulled the syringes free.

An invisible and malicious force struck the inside of her skull between her ears. Even as she dodged the Plague Rat's weak attempts to claw her face and plunged the syringes into the creature's back, she desperately tried to grasp at the memories the _Möta_ was pulling free; not even conscious memories, these were the vestiges of her worst nightmares twisted perversely.

_She walks in the front door of Revello Drive; everything is sunlit warm and dreamy. She finds her mother lying on the couch, staring blindly. Her mother is dead – but she's not. She's still alive inside. Buffy can see it; behind her eyes, she's aware that she's slowly going to decay until only one screaming thought remains:_

_'Let it end.'_

Buffy grabbed the barrel of the first syringe and pulled back on the plunger.

_Dawn is at the front door of the Summers' residence. She looks funny; smells funny: but Buffy doesn't care. Dawn is three hours late and Buffy's too angry to care. She orders Dawn to her room; apparently, that passes as an invitation. Dawn's face changes and she smiles . . ._

The first syringe was full. She pulled it from the Plague Rat's back and dropped it in the bag at her waist; grabbed the plunger of the second syringe and tugged on it.

The malignance borne on the memories magnified: it grew sharper; more vicious.

_Tiny Cassandra, forearms and calves bound by thorny vines and thin branches, hanging spread-eagled between two Cyprus trees. A fire burns beneath her. The odour of charred human flesh makes Buffy's stomach churn._

The barrel of the second syringe was full. She removed it quickly and dropped it into the bag; zipped the bag closed. She drew back her right arm, made a fist and struck the Plague Rat's spine; it cracked audibly. The Plague Rat's torso flopped from side to side and forward. Buffy jumped from its back –

_Willow sits at a table. She's dressed in hospital blue. Her hair is greasy and lank. Within each of her dead black eyes, a tiny, fiery green spark of light dances like a firefly. Saliva dangles from the corner of her thin, pale lips. In her right hand, she holds a yellow crayon; she has used it to scratch three words on a piece of black construction paper:_

_Please Kill Me._

- jumped from its back and landed in an awkward crouch. Bugs covered her legs from feet to mid thigh. Frantically, she brushed them away. Time to get out of here.

_Giles lies on a hospital bed. His joints don't work; his muscles are ropes around bent bones. He's muttering: girls' names and apologies. Beside him is a massive book:_ A Chronological Account of the Demise of Slayers and the Watchers Who Failed Them.

Buffy's face was wet, her throat was tight. Running became stumbling. She grabbed the strap of her rucksack and fled from the crescendo of the bugs and rats chattering, ticking and squealing. She stuck her hand into the pocket of her hoodie and removed the detonator; eyes cast forward, looking –

_Xander lies on a surgical table. Both his eyes are gone. His lips have been sewn together. Someone, faceless, holds a metal funnel to his right ear; pours something silvery and molten into the funnel. The someone faceless speaks – the voice is hers: _

_"You can keep your heart."_

- looking for the mark she'd made. She saw it; passed it; detonated the four small incendiary bombs. The air around her drew back like the breath of a god; the heat propelled her forward like a vampire in the sun. She gathered a breath and ran, following the arrows she'd spray painted on the walls on her way in. Silent rage cut into her head –

_Mouse is naked and curled up in the corner of a glass box that is suspended above a sea of leering faces. Buffy's severed head hangs from a hook and chain inside the box – just out of reach. The sea of people roar:_

_"The mouse gets the cheese, the mouse gets . . ."_

_Courtney holds a metal box with a lid and no lock. Hooks pierce her skin and from them wires extend into a black nothing. She's fighting against her restraints; tears roll down her cheeks as blood rolls down her fingers, hands and arms. The fight is futile; a nameless Gepetto controls the wires and the wires control her actions and now she acts and opens the box and revealed in the black nothing by the ball of fire that incinerates her is Buffy._

_"Who's next?"_

The faster she ran, the stronger and faster the mental assault. She fought for every step, every breath, every –

_Agent Gibbs lies on pavement; his head is twisted grotesquely._

_Agent DiNozzo is pinned the side of a van by a tire iron._

_Agent McGee lies flat on his back; there is a hole in his chest from which shards of white bone protrude._

_Ziva – the side of her throat torn out – leans against a sliding steel door. Her stare is an accusation of betrayal . . ._

Buffy stumbled into the grey light. Before the connection with the _Möta_ broke, she screamed back a thought,

'Thanks for the heads up!'

And then she fell to her hands and knees, biting down on the sobs that ached in her throat.

* * *

Ziva heard the beep from the laptop and glanced at the screen. Buffy was moving fast back along the passages, too fast for the tracker to keep up, it seemed, as the red dot on the screen paused and blinked and then jumped ahead – an insignificant amount on the screen, perhaps, but quite significant in the proper scale. She shut down the laptop, unplugged it and zipped it up in its case; put it on the backseat beneath the blanket she'd brought but hadn't used. She grabbed a bottle of water and got out of her car. As she was closing her door, Buffy stumbled from the tunnel and fell to her hands and knees. Her skin was ashen; her breaths broken. Ziva hurried forward and knelt beside her.

"Are you hurt?"

A laugh twisted by a sob she couldn't contain anymore was Buffy's answer.

Ziva dropped the bottle of water into her coat pocket and put her arm around Buffy's quaking shoulders. "I have you . . . you're safe. Can you stand?"

Buffy's head jerked in a nod. She pushed back on her heels. Ziva flinched when she saw her eyes – they were desolate. She pulled Buffy's arm around her shoulders, put her arm around Buffy's waist. "Up we get." She stood slowly. Buffy clung to her.

Together, they stood for a moment; time enough for Buffy to steady her breathing. She muttered a breathy, "Ok," and, with Ziva's support, walked to the car. Ziva opened the passenger door and helped Buffy into her seat.

"I'll grab your bag." Buffy nodded; Ziva closed the car door.

She had put Buffy's bag into the back seat and was closing her door when the cops showed up.

"Dammit."

What?" Buffy asked.

"The police are here – again. Apparently someone has been ratting us out."

Buffy managed a weak grin. "You trying to be punny?"

Ziva turned her head and looked curiously at her. "What is 'punny'?"

Buffy shook her head. "Never mind." She nodded at Ziva's window. "Cop."

Ziva pulled her wallet from her coat, opened it and rolled down her window just as the officer lifted his hand to knock. She didn't wait for his queries. "Agent David, NCIS. Do you need something, officer?"

The cop knelt and studied the proffered ID; compared the photo to Ziva. "Just had a report that someone had been parked here for awhile. The man said he saw a woman coming out from there." He nodded at the open mouth of the tunnel.

Ziva swore silently. She'd forgotten to close the gate and re-attach the chain and lock. "My partner and I are on a case; we needed to access the tunnels. We were just discussing whether we needed to investigate any further. We will close it."

Buffy shifted forward on her seat and dug her wallet from her back pocket. She opened it to her ID and passed it to Ziva. The officer inspected the ID and ducked his head down to look in the car at Buffy.

"Ok. Can't blame people for being nervous these days, I guess. Sorry for the trouble."

Ziva smiled. "No trouble."

The cop returned to his car, spoke to his partner and made a call on his radio. Buffy opened her door.

"I'll lock up."

While Buffy closed and secured the entrance to the tunnel, Ziva looked through the CDs in the console below the radio. She frowned. She'd brought eight out to the car with her the morning she'd found Buffy waiting outside her building; there were now seven. She looked on the passenger side floor and was reaching blindly beneath the seat when Buffy opened the door.

"Lose something?"Buffy asked.

Frowning, Ziva sat up. "Yes, my _Blackfield _CD. I know I had it in the car – right here with the others."

Buffy got in the car and closed the door. "Did you leave the car unlocked?" Ziva's eyes narrowed. "Sorry. My bad."

Frustrated, Ziva growled and slid _Dana Berger_ into the CD player. She turned to look at Buffy. "You didn't answer me earlier – are you hurt?"

Buffy shook her head. "Nope, everything went according to plan – until something decided to dig in my brain and give me a private screening of 'Buffy's Top 12 Nightmares'." Ziva glanced at Buffy to let her know that she was listening and started the car. "The Shapeshifters . . . the _Möta_ are here, which means that everything just got so much worse."

Buffy sighed . . . and then she sniffed . . . and sniffed again.

Ziva shifted the car into gear and pulled out on to the street. Someone honked furiously; she ignored them and shifted into second. "Why are you sniffing?"

Buffy looked at Ziva, brow furrowed. "Did you have a cat-like kinda person in your car recently?"

Ziva hit the steering wheel with her palm. "That's what she reminded me of – a cat. A young woman named Faatinah spoke with me . . ." She briefed Buffy on the conversation.

Buffy was trying not to laugh; it became more difficult to control herself when she noticed Ziva's worried look. "It's ok, 'm not crazy – much. The_Möta_ mind games wear off pretty fast. But, um . . . Faatinah sat in your car?"

"Yes."

"Uh . . . That's probably what happened to your CD"

"What?" Ziva sputtered. She turned to glare at Buffy.

"Hey, don't use your death stare on me – just the messenger."

"Why would she do that?"

Buffy grinned. "The _Cruor'cats_ kinda have this, 'What's yours is mine, what's mine is yours', philosophy. They really don't get the idea of the word 'private'. I'll get it back for you or buy you a new one." Buffy leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. "Don't be surprised if you find a fish on your doorstep." She started giggling.

Frowning, Ziva glanced at Buffy. "How would she know where I live?"

Buffy abruptly stopped giggling and winced. "Well . . . I might have asked them to keep an eye on you guys when I couldn't. They're very discreet."

Ziva humphed derisively. "Obviously. Is anyone else watching us? It would be nice to know so that I don't accidently shoot one of your friends."

Buffy shook her head. "Nope. Just me and them." She sighed slowly. "Speaking of people being in places they're not supposed to be – why exactly were you outside of the tunnel waiting for me? And how did you know when I would get out?"

Ziva shrugged dismissively and pulled into the parking lot of a coffee shop. "I was waiting in case you needed assistance and I have been there since you went in – the second time."

Buffy opened her eyes, turned her head and studied Ziva's profile for a moment. Quietly, she said, "Thanks."

Ziva nodded. "You are welcome. And now, if you don't mind – I _really_ need to pee."

The Saints Are Coming, lyrics by the Skids  
(A) Bruce Lee


	7. Pride

"Do you believe in reinvention,  
Do you believe that life is holding the clue?  
Any way to face the silence,  
Any way to face the pain that kills you.  
Your smile, shine a little light, alright?  
Don't hide, shine a little light,  
Give up on your pride.  
Give up on your pride, the moment's gone;  
Give up on your smile, life is long.  
So, I seen a bad dream, that you were gone:  
I got bitten on the soul, my blood will run."

Syntax

"Those with the greatest awareness have the greatest nightmares."

Mahatma Gandhi

* * *

**Wednesday October 28th, Washington Hospital Center, 3rd Floor Guardian Research Wing**

Buffy and Ziva found Tony in the third floor waiting room outside the research wing. The Marine who had brought them up from the showers – where Buffy had stripped and scrubbed herself raw – nodded and returned to his post at the elevators. Ziva's sour expression attested to the annoyance she still felt for having to relinquish her coat and sweatshirt – Buffy's Harvard shirt – before she had been allowed in the hospital. Dr. Watts had suggested that, since Ziva had not actually been in the tunnels, it was likely that both articles of clothing would be returned undamaged. Buffy had told Dr. Watts to burn the sweats, hoodie and socks she'd worn. The underclothes, gloves, boots and armour were being decontaminated and would be returned.

Tony was unusually quiet when they entered the waiting room. He spoke long enough to convey that Abby and Mouse had joined the other techs in the lab and would not be back out again until the Plague Rat fluids were declared safe for human exposure and likely not even then as they had a limited time to work with the samples before they degraded. Buffy estimated that that she had drawn the fluids at approximately 4:30pm; they had lost an hour en route, which left 23 hours. She had no idea of what a bunch of geniuses could do in that time – it's not like they were baking cakes – but she hoped they understood the concept of making miracles.

Buffy sat down beside Ziva and yawned. When the hell had she slept last? It was bad when you couldn't remember. Her body was sinking into the small couch and her eyes were closing. There were voices and other ambient noises but her ability to isolate each sound had degraded – like her consciousness.

Slowly . . . she slipped . . . down . . .

* * *

"I'm awake!" Buffy sat up quickly. Her hand flew up to her forehead. "Ugh. Sat up too fast." She ignored the cushion on Ziva's lap and the fact that her head had just risen from it and focused on, well, focusing. Tony was sitting in the same chair. His head rested on the back of the chair and his arms were crossed. He yawned and muttered, "Dr. Preston came in; told us to skedaddle. Guess they're going to be a while."

Buffy nodded and turned to look at Ziva. Ziva moved the pillow from her lap, stood and stretched. "Yes. I think food and a proper bed are very good ideas."

Tony smirked. "You offering, Ziva?"

"Mmm . . . Nope. But I will drive Buffy."

Buffy got up as well. All of the items that had needed decontaminating had been returned and sat, in a pile, beside the bag of clothes Mouse had brought for her from NCIS. She went over to the pile and started putting on her boots. While she was lacing them up, she noticed that Ziva had removed her armour and wore the Harvard sweatshirt; her coat was in her hand. "Ziva, I can catch a cab. No point in driving all over the city."

"I don't mind. Besides, your bag in is my car."

Buffy had almost forgotten about that. Not that she would need anything in it tonight. She gnawed on the inside of her lip for a moment and nodded. "Ok. Not gonna argue. Thanks."

Ziva buttoned up her coat.. "Mm-hmm. Tony, will you be okay to drive home?"

"No problem – really. Think I managed an hour sleep; that'll get me in the front door, I can crawl from there. Call if you hear anything, otherwise, I'll talk to you in the morning."

"I will," Ziva said. "And you can do me a favour – call me when you get home."

Tony smirked playfully. "Aw, that's so . . . sweet. I'll call, if it'll make you feel better."

Ziva picked up Buffy's bag. "It will."

Buffy walked up to Tony as he was turning to leave, put her hand on his shoulder, pulled herself up and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Anthony, for looking out for Mouse. She really only has me so . . . yeah, thanks."

Tony's brow was slightly creased and his subtle smile was gentle. "Yeah, any time. I've been around Abby for so long, trying to understand Mouse was a piece of cake – piece of cheese? Get some sleep."

Buffy wanted nothing more.

* * *

The air outside was chilly and Buffy kicked herself for not throwing her jacket with the bag of clothing Mouse had brought to the hospital. As they neared the parking lot, she breathed in deeply . . . and rolled her eyes. The _Cruor'cats_ were here. She didn't mention this to Ziva; she was curious if she would detect them on her own.

Ziva dug her car keys from her pocket and frowned; looked around. Something was . . . off; there were eyes watching. She realised that something else was off as well, as they neared her car; a bottle of wine was sitting on the hood, held precariously against the windshield by one of the wipers. A small card and something else dangled from a piece of ribbon that was tied to the neck of the bottle.

"Now what," Ziva muttered, as she removed the bottle from its precarious perch. She lifted the card and read aloud the words written on it. "For the dark lady whose name is warmth, and the pretty lady. We offer your companions some of our luck. F." Baffled, Ziva looked at Buffy. "Do you know what this means?"

"I think it's, like, the _Cruor'cats_ way of saying – I hope your friends get better. The leafy stuff, under the ribbon? They burn that during these healing rituals they do when one of them gets sick or hurt. Its legal; I mean, I'm pretty sure it is. No idea what the wine's about." Buffy chuckled. "They can drink that stuff by the gallon but instead of getting drunk, like a human, they get really hyper and affectionate. I had to run from one of their parties."

Ziva unlocked the passenger door and went around to the driver's side. "Is that who I can feel watching me?"

Buffy got in the car and closed the door. Ziva handed Buffy the bottle of wine and her bag and got in as well. She closed her door, put on her seatbelt and looked at Buffy. Buffy shrugged.

"I'm thinking they're taking their promise to keep Mouse safe pretty seriously – deadly seriously, maybe is a better way of saying it." Ziva looked like she was waiting for the rest of the story. Buffy couldn't blame her, all she'd managed to do was create more reasons to be curious. "Ok. Short version. When I was in New York, I found a _Cruor'cat_ with its neck torn out. Two days later I found two more; these were young. Turned out that a gang of vamps had been making it their personal mission to hunt down the _Cruor'cats_ and murder them all. There's like this ancient rivalry between them; unfortunately, the vampires have always outnumbered the cats, so they have to play smarter and be really careful. I didn't know this at the time, just knew that I saw something wrong and I wanted to fix it."

"And you did, of course."

"Yeah. I found the place the vamps called home and loaded up the basement with flammables. When it got light, I lit the match. Some of them even tried running for it; didn't get far." Buffy grinned. "Love sunny New York mornings. After that I kinda . . . well, I wasn't a nice person to be around. I was on a mission to clear out New York of all the bad and I lost touch with the human race for a while."

Ziva put the keys in the ignition and started the car. "I understand. I have become very . . . focused in the past. There wasn't time for anything but my mission and my target. Perhaps it is not such a terrible thing; but not always. Otherwise, I would not have questioned the times when the truth turned out to be very different then what I had been told."

"Yeah, I get that."

* * *

"Uh, Ziva, where are we going?"

"My apartment. You are staying with me tonight. You can use the shower and I am sure that I have something that you could wear."

Buffy considered arguing, but on what grounds? There was nothing she needed from home and no reason to be there. And she really wouldn't mind the company. "Ok. I can do that."

Buffy tucked her hands under her arms and clenched her teeth as another icy shiver rippled down her back. "L-least I can do is buy d-dinner."

Ziva turned the heat on full. "Alright. We can order something, if you like."

Buffy smiled and held her hands up to the heat vent. "I like."

* * *

**Ziva David's Apartment**

Ziva's apartment was small and simple: living room, kitchen, bathroom and three closets. The living room was sparsely decorated and furnished: a small couch and chair; two odd tables – one in front of the couch, the other between the end of the couch and the chair; a large throw pillow covered in coloured cloth lay on the floor at the edge of a small woven rug; a lamp; a small bookcase filled with books; a shiny black vase half filled with dead roses; and two framed photos.

Ziva took Buffy's jacket and hung it in the hall closet. "I am still replacing items from last May."

"Courtney mentioned that you went home for a while. I know this great antique-y store. I got most of the furniture for the house from there. Paul's wife, Claire, has a business restoring furniture; she restored some of the furniture for me."

Ziva led Buffy into the living room and waved at the couch. "Have a seat. Would you like something to drink? I have tea, juice, water and wine." She held up the bottle that had been a gift from Faatinah. "I do have other kinds, if you would prefer."

"Whatever you're having is fine."

Ziva nodded and turned to enter the kitchen. A few minutes later, she returned with a glass of red wine in each hand, a thin stack of take-out menus under one arm and a cordless phone under the other. She placed a glass of wine and the menus on the table in front of the couch and sat down next to Buffy.

Buffy glanced through the menus and selected one. "How 'bout this place . . . and thank you." She raised her glass to Ziva and then to her lips; the wine was dry, medium bodied and had a faint hint of cherries. "This is good."

Ziva smiled, opened the menu and picked up the phone. "So . . . What would you like?"

* * *

Buffy threw out the empty sandwich bags and soup containers and left the dishes beside the sink. She felt like she'd eaten a pigs worth of ham and a whole Swiss cheese – less the holes. She had surprised herself by managing to finish the soup; but it, like the sandwich, had been awesome. On the way back to the living room she grabbed the second bottle of wine and belched heartily. Ziva was curled up against the corner of the couch, legs crossed, head tilted back and eyes closed. She wasn't smiling but the hint was there – she looked more relaxed than Buffy had ever seen her. Buffy sat, opened the wine and filled her glass. "Glass, please."

Ziva blindly extended her arm, holding the glass in front of her steadily. Buffy poured the wine.

"You look relaxed. Kinda doesn't fit, you know, 'Ziva' and 'relaxed' in the same sentence?"

Ziva laughed; it was a throaty vibration Buffy thought she could feel on her skin. She wondered if Ziva knew how sexy and sensual she could be: with a smile slightly curled at the corners; a sultry look from hooded dark brown eyes; or a sound, like that laugh. The characteristics reminded Buffy of a younger Faith, before the years sobered her.

And then she noticed that Ziva was watching her introspectively.

Ziva lifted her glass to her mouth; slowly sipped her wine; licked her lips. She rested her glass on her thigh. "So do you. I believe this is the only time that I have seen you so carefree. I'm surprised you don't have an ulcer."

Buffy realised that she was staring at Ziva's lips and shook her head ruefully. "Don't get much time to relax – much being almost zero. Evil doesn't take a vacation. Right now, people are dying 'cause I'm not out there."

Ziva tilted her head and held Buffy's eyes with her own. "You are not omnipotent. Can you really know that someone will die tonight because you aren't there to save them? And how would you find them? How would you chose who to save – I don't think that even you can be in two places at once." Buffy held the stare and her tongue, though she felt the subtle and poignant recriminations in Ziva's voice. "Where I come from, people die unexpectedly and often for no purpose; war is cruel. I have wished that I could have changed the fates of some of those who have died, but one woman alone cannot end a war."

Buffy forgot sometimes – more often than not – that war was almost perpetual in this world; she had read as much during her pursuits to better understand the arts of warfare. It was kind of funny, like the authors were prophets scripting the lessons of the future – because there was always war. And, as there was always war, there would always be warriors: soldiers, cops, government agents; people who served at the risk of life and limb to protect the people who weren't equipped to do so themselves. People who willingly served without whining about their fates – like she had when she was chosen.

Which led to Ziva's subtle recrimination. Soldiers and cops and all the others who fought worked together; their survival and their successes were substantially improved by their co-operation. She wasn't unfamiliar with the concept. After she had left the Slayers and her friends, she had wrapped herself in camouflage and draped herself in shadow. She had needed to isolate herself from people. She had needed to discover if there had been anything left of Buffy in the mess inside that had been part soldier, part general and part killer. During her travels she had unwoven the fabric of her isolation only rarely and only enough to reveal a ghostly image of herself. Bishop Dumas, her friends Penelope and Harry, and Anna and Quinn in New York: they were the few she had allowed close enough to touch. Until Cassandra. The six months of physical and mental therapy she had spent with Cassandra Montague, following New York and her four month hospitalisation, had taught a few things: autonomous isolation was just another form of self destruction; and she was lonely.

Buffy took a mouthful of wine and swallowed. "My full name is Buffy Anne Summers. Born January 19th 1981. I'm a Capricorn on the cusp of Aquarius. My favourite colours . . . Actually, I'll make it easy; my least favourite colours are lime green and anything neon that isn't in a sign. I like the not so popular music – so don't expect to see any Beyonce or Lady Gaga on my MP3 player – and I like pretty much any food. I skated when I was a girl – Dorothy Hamill was my hero. I like all kinds of movies, except the depressing artsy stuff that makes you want to slash your wrists with the DVD when the movie's done. I mean – really? What's the point? If I want to watch depressing, angsty, emo crap I'll hire someone to follow me around with a camera."

A smile tugged at Ziva's lips. She wondered what would happen if she were to sit Tony and Buffy in a room to watch movies that both had selected. Buffy saw the hint of a smile and her brows narrowed briefly.

"What?"

Ziva shook her head. "Nothing. Go on."

"Oh-kay. I did a year and a half of university in Sunnydale but I dropped out in my second year; my mom died and I had to look after my sister. Mom was great. Really, how many moms could handle their seventeen year old daughters going out and killing things almost every night." Buffy grinned wryly. "Ok, she wasn't so cool with it when she found out but it wasn't exactly a Hallmark moment when I told her. I was in kind of a hurry; those pesky apocalypses don't wait for family drama.

"Fell in love when I was sixteen. Had my heart broken the day after my seventeenth birthday. Some advice – never fall in love with a two hundred and fifty year old vampire with dissociative identity disorder who decides to have a four month psychotic break."

Buffy rolled the stem of her glass between her fingers; smiled again, bittersweet. "He got better, just before I put a sword through him and sent him to hell . . ." She yawned. "Sorry."

Ziva stood and held her hand out for Buffy's wineglass; Buffy gave it to her. "Time for bed."

"'k."

Ziva took the glasses and bottle into the kitchen. When she returned, she found Buffy asleep.

* * *

"Buffy – come, it's time for bed."

Buffy blinked sleepily and yawned. "Déjà vu."

Ziva smirked. "You fell asleep."

Buffy stumbled up from the couch and stretched. "Do you have a pillow and a blanket?"

Ziva nodded. "Yes, on my bed, where you are going."

Buffy frowned and shook her head. "Ah, no. Your house, your bed. Me and the couch, we'll get along great."

Ziva smiled patiently. "It is a big bed." She placed her hand on the small of Buffy's back and guided her down the hall. They stopped in front of the bathroom. "There is something for you to sleep in, a new toothbrush and a towel on the shelf for you."

Only now did Buffy realize that Ziva had already prepared for bed. She wore a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms and a cotton tank top; her hair was loose and any remnants of make-up that had survived the long hours at NCIS were gone. It was as if, by removing the extraneous layers, Ziva had stripped away years.

Buffy grinned. "Bet you were adorable . . . when you were young." She ducked in the bathroom and closed the door before Ziva could respond.

* * *

Ziva was leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom door when Buffy opened it. She studied Buffy's freshly scrubbed face; there was little change in her physical appearance but her sleepy smile and shy eyes were evidence that Buffy, too, had been young and less jaded once. She placed her fingertips on Buffy's shoulder. "This way."

Buffy shuffled along the hall trying not to trip on the cuffs of the slightly too long pyjama bottoms Ziva had loaned her; she didn't mind that they were too big for her – it was so nice to be out of jeans.

Like the rest of Ziva's apartment, her bedroom was very utilitarian; except for the bed: a queen sized covered with a rusty coloured duvet and four plump pillows at the head. Buffy stopped moving when Ziva's fingers left her shoulders.

"Ya know, I _really_ can sleep on the couch . . ."

Ziva pulled the blankets back on the bed and climbed in. "The bed is more comfortable and this way I will not need to get up later."

"Huh?"

Ziva patted the open space on the mattress beside her. Buffy climbed on the bed and lay back. Ziva pulled the blankets over them both, turned on her side facing Buffy and propped her head up with her arm. "Do you remember what you dreamed at the hospital?"

Buffy turned to face Ziva and tucked her hands between the pillow and her cheek. "Uh, not so much." She did remember waking very briefly on two occasions: at one point, her head had been resting against Ziva's shoulder; at a later point, her head had rested on a pillow that had lain on Ziva's lap. Neither time had she retained consciousness long enough to move. "Sorry about the subconscious snuggling."

Ziva waved off the apology. "When I got up from my seat beside you at the hospital, you reacted badly; you were very agitated. When I sat beside you again, you calmed. I asked Tony to sit with you when I needed to get up and you continued to sleep."

Buffy's hands were no longer tucked beneath her cheek; now, they covered her face. She laughed. "Oh god. This just keeps getting more embarrassing."

Ziva frowned. "I know that you are very strong, but I have learned recently that what's up here," she reached over and pressed the tips of her index and middle fingers against Buffy's forehead, "where all the darkness hides, is stronger than any one of us alone."

Buffy lowered her hands revealing a smile and the subtle questing of her eyes. "Ya know, Agent David, it's not nice poking around in other people's heads. But, thank you – for today, for this . . . It's very sweet."

Ziva's eyebrow arched. "It was nothing – and I am _not_ 'sweet'."

"Didn't say you were; said what you did was – there's a difference . . . you know . . ."

Ziva didn't bother to respond, she doubted that she would have been heard. Buffy's eyes were closed, her breaths slow. Ziva lowered her head to her pillow but didn't close her eyes. She waited, and, while she waited, she pondered Buffy Summers. She was still an enigma on the surface, but deeper inside, where the woman truly lived, in pain and memory, blood and heart, Ziva was beginning to see the history and complexities. She and Buffy were very different in many ways but there were parallels, similarities. And these were what she pondered.

Twenty minutes into her contemplation, Buffy became agitated, as badly as she had at the hospital. Ziva reached for her hand, took it and held it firmly.

"No one should face death alone . . . _Chalomot tovim_, Buffy."

* * *

**Thursday October 29th, Ziva David's Apartment**

"Good morning!"

The overly cheerful voice woke her from her doze. She took the requisite ten seconds to process: where she was; who was speaking; and why she felt so rested. Still working on the latter, she opened her eyes. Ziva was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, a mug of coffee in each hand. She was clean, dressed and smiling.

"One of those for me?" Buffy asked.

Ziva approached the bed. Buffy pushed herself up and leaned against the headboard. Ziva's good mood seemed to be contagious because, unlike most mornings, Buffy was smiling as well. She accepted the mug of coffee and wrapped the fingers of both hands around it.

"Thanks. I'd ask you how you know how I take my coffee but you'd just give me the 'I'm an investigator' line." She sipped her coffee carefully. "Since I'm not an investigator, gotta ask – what's with the smile?"

Ziva sat on the edge of the bed and rested her mug on her thigh. "Abby called. They have found a way to cure Gibbs and McGee." She shook her head. "Abby tried to explain but . . . I think that she forgets that most of us are not as gifted as she is. I will have to remember to ask her to . . . simple it up?"

Buffy laughed. "Well, at least Mouse and Abby can understand each other. So, Agent Gibbs and McGee are gonna be ok?"

"They are not out of the forest yet –" Buffy's lips pursed, prepared to speak; she sipped her coffee instead – "but Abby said that once the virus has been . . . dealt with, the doctors can repair the damage it caused."

"Are you going up to see them?"

Ziva stood. "Yes. I was waiting for you."

Buffy threw her legs over the bed and caught the dribbles of coffee that had spilled in her haste in her hand. "You should've woken me up earlier. What time is it anyway?"

Ziva glanced at her watch. "Ten passed one. And you needed the sleep."

"Yeah, I guess I did. Still should've woken me up and kicked my butt out so you could do what you needed to."

"I thought you might like to go to the hospital as well. There are clean towels in the bathroom and I'm sure I can find something that would fit you."

Buffy considered. "I do have most of a change of clothes in my bag; if I could borrow a shirt?"

"Certainly." Ziva went to one of the few pieces of furniture in the room other than the bed – a mahogany wardrobe – and opened the mirrored doors. "Let's see what we can find."

* * *

They were a minute on the road when Buffy's phone rang; she didn't get off until they reached the hospital doors and she was required to turn off her phone.

"Thank god for hospital rules. Director Hutchins is worse than I was when I was sixteen."

Ziva grinned and held the door open for Buffy. "And that is why I like working for Gibbs; he rarely says more than he absolutely needs to."

"Yeah, noticed that about him. Coffee and muffin?"

"Mmm . . . Breakfast. Maybe two muffins . . ."

"And two coffees," Buffy added.

They joined the line at the coffee counter; both had their wallet in their hand.

The moment before Ziva lifted her wallet to pay, Buffy said, "Wanna see a trick?"

Ziva turned her head to look at her; Buffy slipped her wallet from her fingers and held a twenty out to the person behind the counter. Buffy stuck Ziva's wallet back in the pocket of her coat and smirked. "Made you look."

* * *

**Thursday October 29th, Washington Hospital Center, 3rd Floor Guardian Research Wing**

The third floor was surprisingly alive with activity. After Buffy and Ziva had offered their ID to the two Marines standing watch at the elevator, they went to the admissions counter where Buffy again presented her ID.

"Buffy Summers. I need into the lab."

"Yes, ma'am. If you'll meet me by the door, I'll buzz you through."

Buffy didn't bother to put her wallet away; there would be another guard at the door to the lab. She motioned to Ziva to follow. As expected, another Marine awaited them. Buffy held up her ID. As Ziva did the same, the Marine frowned.

"Agent David isn't authorised for entry beyond this point, ma'am."

Buffy smiled sweetly. "I'm authorising her."

"Yes, ma'am. I _will_ have to report this."

"I know. If it helps any, you could tell them I ordered you."

"Yes, ma'am."

The Marine stepped aside and the person at admissions released the electronic lock. Buffy opened the door, escorted Ziva inside and followed. Dr. Preston was there to greet them, though she did give Ziva a curious look.

"Buffy. I'm glad you came. Let's go to my office."

Dr. Preston led them through the lab, the first of four. This area was considered Biosafety Level 1 and was used by everyone in the research wing. Through another door were two additional labs, Biosafety Level 2, and, through another security checkpoint – and god knew how many additional electronically locked doors and Marines – was the last lab; it was here that the researchers examined and tested – and often puzzled over – everything Buffy. It had the highest Biosafety Rating – Level 3 – and included access to a private incinerator where all samples were deposited after they had been used. Wendy and the rest of the senior staff were lobbying for a Level 4 lab so they could run tests against some of the deadliest viruses and bacteria using samples from Buffy and some of the specimens she had eliminated.

Dr. Preston ushered Buffy and Ziva into her office, offered chairs and closed the door. She remained standing; her restlessness was obvious as she paced the width of the room.

"McGee, Gibbs and McDowell are on their way to recovering. We've been testing their blood every hour; as soon as they test clean, we'll clean out their systems and give them blood transfusions. We don't want to take chances." Dr. Preston stopped, clapped her hands together in front of her and exclaimed, "Do you have any idea what the fluids you extracted from the Plague Rat are capable of? They're a damned panacea; ambrosia of the gods! We ran preliminary tests on the fluid while we were working on a way to introduce it to the human physiology. Dr. Watts and Dr. Reid discovered that when it was introduced to specimens contaminated with viruses, it's DNA and RNA morphed and antibodies were created – together they destroyed the virus. We managed three more tests, one on a sample infected with H1N1, and the results were the same; and, on one subject showing physical trauma, the trauma was repaired. It's amazing, really. There was no information related to the lymphatic or thalamus systems; the T-cells seemed to contain all of the necessary protocols." Wendy looked frazzled. "Do you realise what this means?"

Buffy had a good idea. "I guess it means that you want more. Maybe, before we go there, you should figure out a way to make it last, you know? 'Cause there aren't that many Plague Rats left in the world. And one more thing, Dr. Preston," and now there was an edge to Buffy's voice, "no one knows about this outside the labs and the CGR. I don't want a bunch of eager science-y types running around in the sewers – there are things down there that would love an easy meal and, if someone gets bitten, by one of the Plague Rat's creepy crawlies, you won't know about it until it's happened – what if the next disease is something worse – like the real plague?"

Dr. Preston stared back; for a moment, Buffy thought she might be challenged. She sighed instead. "I know. And I agree. We will continue to use the data we've collected and search for a method to keep the fluids viable for a greater period." She sat at her desk. "Miss Sciuto and Mouse were very passionate in their work." She shook her head. "I would love to sit and talk to them – they see everything very differently than the vast majority."

Buffy smiled. "Yeah, tell me about it. I think Mouse would like to cure the world of sickness all by herself and Abby, well, she had two very good reasons to be passionate. You said they would need blood transfusions?" Dr. Preston nodded. "'K, vamp away."

Dr. Preston frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Yep. My blood works for everyone right? And look at it this way – Agent McGee and Agent Gibbs aren't gonna be outta here for a while, and I know you've been dying to see if Slayer blood can do more than stain my clothes . . ."

Dr. Preston was on her feet again. "I'll make sure every protocol is followed. I'll ask one of my assistants to set it up in the patients ward."

Ziva spoke up, before Dr. Preston left. "I will give blood as well. I imagine that I owe some from my last visit."

Dr. Preston smiled. "Thank you, Agent David. We can always use donations and AB is in short supply."

While Wendy was arranging with one of her assistants to have their blood taken, Buffy used her office phone. It was amazing how quick Director Hutchins answered her calls when he needed something from her, not that he was normally slow to return her calls; he was one of the members of the CGR who was fairly courteous.

"Miss Summers. Am I to assume that you're calling to let me know you're on your way?"

"I'll be done here by 5:00; I'm giving blood first."

"I'll send someone to pick you up."

"Really? Um . . . Sure. It'll save me the cab. I'll be at the front doors at 5:00."

"Someone will be waiting. I'll see you in a few hours."

Buffy hung up the phone and got up from her chair. "The Director of the FBI wants me to work with these profiler people. I guess they catch serial killers and fun stuff like that. What do you wanna bet they end up profiling me?"

Ziva looked speculatively at her. "You would make a very interesting study. I imagine that they could spend weeks trying to . . . _unravel_ you. They might even find a new disorder – they could name it after you."

Buffy pouted. "I take back everything nice I said about you."

* * *

On the way to the examination room, they stopped and spoke with Courtney and Agent Greer. They were introduced to Elsie Morgan who seemed to be handling her boyfriends near death experience with maturity and grace. She looked tired though; world weary and sleep deprived. She was grateful for the escort to the hospital and the effort everyone had provided to cure Owen and protect both of them. Buffy tried not to be detached when she responded but detachment was a reflex, had been for years.

Twenty minutes later they were sitting on chairs in the examination room, gauze taped to the insides of their forearms.

Buffy sipped her orange drink, with added iron supplements, and nodded at Ziva. "Do you get the spinnies? I do; it's kinda fun – like a cheap high."

Ziva's right eyebrow arched. "Do you have a dictionary with all of these phrases in it? It would be helpful, you know."

"And again with the 'ouch'. I'll write you a list. And, so you know, I'll be working with the FBI for three or four days and then I have to spend some time on the street. You have my phone numbers, right?"

Ziva nodded. "I do." She smiled mischievously. "Who will protect Tony and I when we need to leave NCIS?"

Buffy crossed her feet at her ankles and clasped her hands behind her head. "Don't worry, someone will be watching. And, on that note, I want you to wear the vest when you go out. Make sure Tony wears one too? Please?" She smirked. "Not that I care if you get shot or anything, but it would look bad on my record."

"I think you would miss me."

"Ok, that's called 'avoidance'. Will you wear the vest?"

"Yes," Ziva answered, "I will. And I will make sure that Tony does as well. I don't like being shot."

Buffy closed her eyes and smiled. "Cool. Oh, the info' about Osbourne's plane, that I asked the Ottawa Slayers to look into? I'll send that to Abby's e-mail, when I get it. If anything else comes up, I'll be in touch. Do the same? Anytime, really."

"I will. Good luck with the FBI. If this is a test, you will pass with flying colours. You are very strange sometimes, yes, but you are not crazy."

"Thanks. That actually makes me feel better."

* * *

**Friday October 30th, NCIS**

Agent Mullen, who sat in the cubicle adjacent to Ziva's, looked up and smiled when she heard Agents DiNozzo and David step off of the elevator. She waved to catch the agents' attention. "Good morning, Agent David, Agent DiNozzo. There was a delivery for you."

"For me?" DiNozzo asked with boyish enthusiasm. Then he frowned. "Who would send me anything? Pretty sure I haven't forgotten any of the dates I haven't had in the past month." He went eagerly to his desk; noticed the gift bag sitting beside his keyboard.

Ziva discovered a similar bag and a delivery from a flower shop. She stood behind her desk and examined the two packages closer, looking for a card or note.

Tony, it seemed, by his exclamation of surprise, had decided that the mystery of what was in the bag was of more importance than from whom, and had emptied the contents to his desk. The first was a leather case, smaller and squarer than a briefcase, with a hinged lid and zipper that could be locked. The second item was smaller and, while again, it was leather, it was shaped like a cup. He opened the leather case first.

Ziva finally located a small card in an envelope with her name on it and opened it. She removed the card and read the note:

'This is my way of saying – thank you. Sorry, don't take returns. Really, though – thank you. Hope you like them. Got them from the Guardians. There not quite as strong as a Damascus steel but they make up for it in suppleness? That's a word, right? They also have the best balance of any knife I've used and whoever did the metallurgy, managed to incorporate enough silver to put the hurt on anything with a silver allergy. And the flower – well, you'll figure it out.

Buffy'

She opened the paper containing the flower and removed a single tiger lily; it's aroma quickly spread and she smiled – the aroma, and the flower from which it floated, were exotic and bewitching. She set the flower aside for now and removed a flat leather case from the bag.

Tony was staring at the contents of the box he had been given; a small sheet of paper was held between thumb and index finger. "She bought me a taser? Should I be offended? I mean, it's a really good taser, even comes with a holster . . ."

Ziva glanced at Tony. "What is in the other box?"

Tony waved the paper in his hand. "Some kind of hippy herbal stuff; supposed to be really good for the heart and blood." He frowned and read the rest of the note. "Huh. Says I shouldn't be trying this on McGee – something about causing death in humans. Not that I would; I mean, that would be wrong – and kind of funny. Not the death part . . ."

Tony's words drifted passed Ziva as she unzipped the leather case and opened it. Three panels unfolded from the central case; to each, a medium sized throwing knife was affixed. She held her breath for a moment and released it very slowly. The knives were beautiful. She extracted one from its bindings and balanced it across her left palm. Tony joined her and whistled.

"Nice."

Ziva nodded distractedly. "You have no idea – really, you couldn't. Hand made . . . Do you see, below the blade, the markings there?" Tony leaned in closer. He could discern characters subtly etched into the metal. They looked familiar. "It is Hebrew. It means 'sunrise'."

Tony leaned a little closer to the case that held the other two knives and squinted. "What about these two?"

Ziva flipped the knife lying on her palm and deftly caught the grip. She slid it back in the case and inspected the other two. "Ah. This one is 'sunset' and this is 'twilight'."

"So, ya think she names all her weapons? Just sounds so 'Lord of the Rings' or something."

Ziva shrugged. Her phone rang; she picked it up and answered automatically, "Agent David."

Director Vance responded. "Good Morning, Agent David. When you and DiNozzo are done playing with your toys, can you join me in the conference room? Got a case I need you to look at."

"Of course," she slapped Tony's hand as he reached for the card she'd left on her desk. "We will be right up."


	8. Of Past And Presence

We must remember that one determined person can make a significant difference, and that a small group of determined people can change the course of history.

- Sonia Johnson

Authors Note: The numbers associated with the Slayers is off. This is intentional.

**Monday November 2nd, 2009, Abby's Lab**

Abby turned the lights on in her lab and powered up her toys before entering her office to remove her coat, hat, scarf and mitts. She turned on the rest of her equipment, picked up her Caf-Pow! and returned to the lab. A familiar and comforting symphony of humms and ticks greeted her; sometimes she thought that the machines were saying 'good morning' – they certainly bitched enough when something wasn't right.

She rolled her chair closer to the computer and sat; logged in and waited. First order of the day – e-mails. Most were from agents following up on evidence from their cases; a few were departmental; one, however, stood out. She opened it and picked up her Caf-Pow!; took the straw between her lips and sipped as she read.

"Hi Abby,

I heard back from the Slayers in Ottawa about the missing men who flew from Washington. Their bodies were found close to Ottawa. The autopsy report said that they'd been killed - snapped necks – and then dumped. The man who left the plane, the no one could identify, turned out to be one of the missing British pilots.

I don't get why the British guy – Flight Lieutenant William Kemp – caught a plane from the States to Canada. Unless he was taking something with him that was too important to be discovered by Kerley and his men. I guess being a pilot kinda helped too. There's no record of him after he left the airport; he just kinda, 'poof', disappeared.

Which made me think about the vamps that took off from the hangar – where did they go? And then I had a thought – 'cause that happens sometimes –"

Abby laughed drily.

"Any chance there are cameras on the train tracks where I ditched the bomb? A train would be a good way for a vamp to travel. The general consensus around the globe is – all of the missing people are _really_ missing. No signs of them in their countries of origin. I think they're regrouping somewhere, which is kind of scary, 'cause normal vamps aren't that organized.

Anyway, if I hear anything else before I see you guys again, I'll send it.

Oh – thank you. I know I kind of pushed my way into your comfort zone and I brought the freak train with me – sorry about that.

Take care, Abby

P.S. Hope you like them."

Abby frowned – 'Like what?'

Someone knocked on the inside of her door. "Miss Sciuto?"

Abby turned. Someone was standing in her doorway; it was impossible to see their face as, whoever it was, was clinging to three very large bouquets of flowers. She grinned and hopped of her stool.

* * *

**Monday November 2nd, 2009, Washington Hospital Center, 3rd Floor Guardian Research Wing, Recovery**

Gibbs tossed down the newspaper he had been reading and crossed his arms. He was ready to leave the hospital – had been the day after he'd woken up from his unexpected illness. He felt fine; kept telling the damned doctors the same. 'Another day,' they said.

Another damned say wasted.

The door to the room opened and Summers stepped in. She was carrying two take-out bags and a plastic bag.

McGee, who had been watching TV, listening through ear phones, sat up straighter when he saw her and smiled. He pulled the ear phones off and turned off the TV. "Hey."

Buffy smiled back. "Hey, Timothy, Agent Gibbs. Thought you guys might want some real food." She set the bags down on a chair and began extracting items from them. "Tomato and roasted red pepper soup; roast beef on rosemary bread with a side of horseradish; apple pie; and real coffee." Gibbs and McGee watched her without word as she handed out her presents. She grinned when both grabbed their coffees, opened the lids and took long sips. "And in case you're already bored with your reading material," she pulled four magazines from the plastic bag – two about guns and two about computers – and handed them out.

McGee took a moment to respond. "Thank you, this is . . ." He breathed in deeply as he uncovered the soup. "Oh, god, this smells so good."

Gibbs mumbled something that sounded like, "Yeah, thanks," around his sandwich.

"I know what it's like. Anyway, I can't stay. Gotta meet someone who has some info about our missing vamps. I'll talk to you guys soon."

Before either Gibbs or McGee could clear their mouths to respond, Buffy was gone.

Gibbs wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Strange woman."

McGee shrugged. "I don't know – I kind of like her."

* * *

**Wednesday November 4th, 2009, NCIS**

McGee looked up absently from his desk and froze; his eyes widened.

DiNozzo, who was catching up on paperwork – e-mails from a buddy in Fort Lauderdale – felt a chill.

David's eyes narrowed; something dangerous was approaching.

"Agent David, Agent DiNozzo – a word." The spark of anger in Buffy's voice was unmistakable; the knife edge gleam in her eyes was undeniably hungry. If either Tony or Ziva thought that Buffy may be playing, her next utterance, like the crack of an axe, caused both to jump and follow her as she headed for the break room.

Buffy was waiting, arms crossed over her chest, hips tilted a few inches, eyes unblinking. "What did I say about following me?"

"Oh, I know this one," Tony said. "Don't?"

"Got it in one." Buffy held her hand out; on it lay a government issue tracker. "Wendy called; in all the hub-bub, she forget that they found this tucked into my vest. Called James to track it down. Funny thing – he said it belongs to you. Which means . . . someone wasn't paying attention in class."

Tony jabbed his finger at Ziva. "It was her idea!"

Ziva rolled her eyes. "Yes, it was. I wanted to be sure that you could find your way out."

Buffy stepped forward slowly. "Hold out your hand." Ziva complied and Buffy dropped the tracker onto her palm. She took another step, leaned in to whisper something in Ziva's ear and kissed her on the cheek. Ziva smiled and frowned as Buffy continued passed her. "So, tell me there's coffee – I really need coffee."

Tony looked troubled by the turn of events. "What did she say?"

Ziva smirked and wiggled her eyebrows once. "I would tell you but . . ." She glanced, with a leer, down Tony's body, "it might make you uncomfortable – in certain places."

"Hey. I can take it . . ."

* * *

Buffy sat on the end of Ziva's desk watching the others work. They were very different in their approaches but there was an obvious harmony to their method – like they had divided a five thousand piece puzzle between them and together they were linking the pieces to create the complete picture; only problem was, each piece of the puzzle was its own puzzle.

Daniel had called her two hours ago. He had said that Director Vance had requested their presence at NCIS to discuss the terms of the working relationship with Buffy and the Guardians.

Which was the other reason Buffy was studying the agents; she was hoping that she might detect some indication of their decision. She hadn't bothered trying to glean anything from Agents Gibbs and David. She knew, from her previous covert observations that neither would betray their thoughts any more than they betrayed their emotions. Which left Agents DiNozzo and McGee. Agent DiNozzo, rather than try to hide his thoughts or emotions, used other distractions to keep her guessing: he grinned impishly; tapped his pencil against the desk; fired spit balls at Ziva when he thought that Agent Gibbs wasn't watching – until Buffy beaned him in the forehead with a Tic-Tac; talked to his monitor. When he became bored with those entertainments, he asked her questions, like:

"So how many black belts do you have anyway?"

"None. Could never find the right pants to wear with them."

Or,

"Play any sports when you were in school? Did you go to school?"

"Yep. I played the wonderful sport of slaying. And yes, I went to school. Did a year and a half of University; had to quit to look after my sister when my mom died. But, you know that . . ."

And the last,

"So, favourite martial arts movie."

"Hmm . . . _Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon_ . . . Not really a martial arts movie but _The Crow_ . . . _Kill Bill_, both parts, but the fights in the night club with the Crazy 88's and the one outside between the Bride and O-Ren rocked . . . _Ong Bak_ . . . Mmm, I know there's more, just can't think of them."

After that, Buffy admitted defeat and moved on to Agent McGee. His defence? The moment he detected her eyes on him, he initiated a conversation with one of the other agents. If she'd had a few more minutes she knew she could have caught him in one of the brief moments when he was focused, with just a little too much zealousness, on his monitor. Unfortunately, Director Vance and Daniel had emerged from their conference and appeared on the mezzanine level; Director Vance called them up.

Agent DiNozzo smiled smugly as he rose from his chair. Instead of responding childishly – by sticking her tongue out, perhaps – Buffy smiled (a small secretive smile that used to drive Dawn crazy) and winked like DiNozzo had told her everything she needed – thank you very much. DiNozzo's flash of confusion was only a little satisfying; she was to anxious to enjoy it properly.

* * *

Once again, they were seated in the conference room. Abby, Doctor Mallard and Mr. Palmer had joined them. Director Vance, Daniel and Agent Gibbs had taken their places at the head of the table as they had in the first meeting. A stack of folders and an open laptop sat on the table between Daniel and Vance.

Buffy chose to remain standing; she was far too restive; just the thought of sitting made her muscles twitch. Daniel looked curiously at her; she shrugged. "My head's too busy . . . Don't you laugh at me. Just, start with the meeting, I'm listening."

Director Vance nodded. "Fine. Let's begin. NCIS has considered your offer. Before we give you our decision, there are a few things we'd like to clear up."

Buffy turned to face the table and crossed her arms over her chest. "Ooo-kay. Shoot . . . Probably not a good thing to say around here. Ask away?"

"In the legal documentation there's a clause that states that all evidence found at crime scenes is acknowledged as property of NCIS with the exception of property belonging to the Guardians." Vance looked up from the paragraph he'd been paraphrasing. "What happens if the evidence in question is considered property of the Guardians but pertains to our investigation?"

The words fell automatically from Buffy's lips; a variation of the words she'd spoken to the other agencies, at least. "It goes to you. And after you're done with it, I get it. No running tests on it or trying to figure things out, though. Some of the equipment, like the armour, is still classified." She looked at McGee and smirked. "Same thing with trying to hack into the Guardians' server. I asked them not to retaliate but, if you try again, you might have fireworks in your office . . . place where you sit. Whatever you call it." The sudden shift of McGee's eyes to the table gave him away. "However, depending on things go here, you'll all have access anyway."

Agent Gibbs jumped in before Abby and Timothy could, no doubt with questions about what kind of access they would have – a question Buffy couldn't answer anyway.

"What about the chain of command?"

"They're your team, Agent Gibbs. I don't give orders to anyone; don't take them either, not from you, your government or the Guardians. Think of me as a private consultant-slash-security expert."

Buffy tilted her head. 'Why's everyone frowning?'

"I thought you worked for the Guardians," DiNozzo said.

Buffy smiled. "There is no 'for', only 'with' or 'without'."

"But you still comply by the Guardians laws, is that right?" Director Vance looked like he was trying to peer inside her head with his brown eyes.

Buffy winked at him. "Yep. We all do. Slayers are too dangerous without rules."

"And how does that work?" The Director asked.

"Um, it's pretty simple. The Guardian Council investigates the charges and sends their findings with the Slayer accused of the crime to the country the crime was committed in. If she's found guilty, she does the time."

Abby held up her hand; Buffy grinned. "Miss Sciuto?"

"What happens when the team splits up, 'cause unless one of your super powers is creating a clone of yourself – which would be very cool – you can't be in two places at once, right?"

Not the question Buffy had expected; definitely a fair one though. "Um . . . I stick with the agents who are at the biggest risk and I teach you what to look for and how to deal with it – 'cause guns aren't always going to work."

DiNozzo smiled blandly. "So, what? You want us to carry stakes and crosses now? That's very 'Van Helsing'."

"That'd be a start. I was thinking tasers and tranq' guns and some defensive training." Buffy decided that a little reassurance might be in order. "If the situation gets any worse, and it will, I'll call in back-up. I can have a team here pretty quick."

Abby, DiNozzo and McGee perked up. She could see, in DiNozzo's and McGee's eyes, the sparks of fantasies, no doubt about kick ass woman in tight clothing. She'd seen the look in Xander's eyes before; hell, once upon a time, she'd been the recipient.

"Before you guys start fantasising, you might wanna think about something: Slayers have big appetites and bigger stamina. You might want to have a physical first, make sure you don't have any heart problems – and, yeah, Anthony, I mean you." Her intentions really were good, problem was, now Jimmy and Ziva had that speculative look in their eyes. "Fine. But I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' when you can't walk for a week."

Gibbs stared at an oblivious DiNozzo for a second and shook his head. "How's this supposed to work? Are you planning on hanging around here or do we call you when we're heading out.?"

"Whatever works for you," Buffy answered. "Either way, I guess I'll need a new bike."

"Anyone else?" Director Vance asked. No one responded. "Alright, let's put this to a vote. McGee?"

"I'm in," McGee answered without hesitation.

"Miss Sciuto?"

Abby glanced quickly over her colleagues' faces; her eyes stopped on Buffy's. "This is really important, right? Like you said, bigger than 911?" Buffy nodded but said nothing. She didn't want to influence Abby's decision. Abby looked at the Director. "What about other cases? I mean, if these guys bring in evidence, does that take precedence, 'cause the other agents are going to get bitchy if their evidence is always processed late."

Vance removed a thin folder from the stack on the table. "I have the names of eight applicants. I'd like you to look them over; tell me what you think."

For a second Abby's expression darkened and then she looked at Gibbs and her features relaxed.

"I'll have a look after we're done here. Do they come with psych reviews?" Gibbs and DiNozzo smiled briefly. "Fine. I'll work with crazy lady."

Buffy met Abby's eyes and smiled.

Vance turned to the next person in line. "Dr. Mallard?"

Ducky looked up and smiled nostalgically. "As Helen Keller said, 'Life is either a great adventure or nothing'. I would welcome the opportunity for one last adventure, although I'm not certain of how much assistance I will be able to provide."

"'The next best thing to being wise oneself is to live in a circle of those who are'," Buffy answered. "I read now – go figure." She did, too. TV and movies were ok but she felt like someone had sucked out part of her brain after. Reading required concentration and thought and, depending on the subject, could actually be enlightening. Mostly she read books about military strategies: _The Art of War_; _The 33 Strategies of War_; _De Re Militari_ – things like that. Currently she was reading a book by a British Captain called _The Defence of Duffer's Drift._ 'Course, she read fiction, too, though she tended to avoid the Horror genre, just because.

Dr. Palmer (and he was quite surprised to be here at all) was the next to answer. "I'm not sure how much help I'll be but," he glanced fondly at Dr. Mallard, "I can at least assist Dr. Mallard. So, yes, I'm in."

Director Vance turned to Ziva. "Agent David?"

Ziva answered promptly but firmly. "My vote is yes."

"Agent DiNozzo?"

Tony's eyes met Buffy's; they were unusually serious. "We're talking full disclosure here, right? No hidden agendas or secret missions that require lying?"

Buffy answered with the respect his question deserved. "Everything pertaining to you or the cases we work on together will be shared. Not much point in hiding things from each other. Anything else: that's up to you or me. I know I don't like it when people dig up my past," her gaze was a little sharp as it passed quickly over each of the NCIS personnel. "I figure you're not gonna want me digging up yours either. If you want to know something – ask."

Drily, Gibbs asked, "You mean you haven't looked us up?"

A bland stare answered. "Other than your basic profiles? No. I didn't call family members that I haven't spoken to in forever or put a tracker on my bike (she left out the second tracker, just in case it hadn't been authorised) and follow me. Although, I guess I kinda owe in the last department."

Tony's eyes met Buffy's again. "Do we get a raise?" Buffy's eyebrow rose; so did Gibbs. "What the hell. I'm in."

Director Vance addressed the last person in the room to be asked. "Gibbs?"

Gibbs turned in his chair to face Buffy directly; for just a moment, another of those fleeting moments of childishness, she wanted to move just to see if he would turn in his chair again. She didn't. Instead, she was very still and as open as she could allow herself to be. Gibbs posed the true test, as his subtle but invasive stare could attest to.

"This is going to get worse, isn't it?"

There was no point in dumbing it down; Gibbs would know better. "Yes, a lot."

Gibbs nodded slowly. "You willing to follow my lead?"

"You willing to follow mine?"

(The spectators later agreed: good tension but the dialogue needed some work. And _why_ hadn't anyone recorded it?)

"Don't have much choice, you've got the knowledge and the intel'."

"And you've got the Sherlock-ing skills."

Gibbs nodded again. Somewhere, a fly was buzzing.

"Yeah . . . I'm in."

Buffy felt like her spine had calcified; she could feel creaks and cracks when she straightened her back. Four months of observing had reached an end. She could finally offer a clearer picture of what was happening and what was at stake. She smiled and stretched again.

Daniel and Director Vance were handing out copies of the Guardian's Confidentiality Agreement and the Guardian's contract with the US government.

Buffy had given up on 'hope' years ago, so she couldn't say that she had any for a quick resolution of the current threat. She was beginning to think that this global uprising of the Underworld was the beginning of the end. It wouldn't surprise her. She and Angel, with the assistance of friends and family, had managed to piss off some of the biggest players in the 'I Want To Be An Evil Tyrant' club and a few who claimed to be on the side of humanity. Angel had died in his efforts, he and so many more: Spike; Tara; Anya; Cordelia; Wesley; their friends, Charles Gunn and Winifred Burkle; Jenny; how many at Grad'; how many in the Hellmouth?

And Buffy? Still alive and bitching, forever to live with her choice (not theirs . . . never theirs). It didn't matter that the First's army had been on the doorstep of the mortal world, she hadn't asked a thousand girls if they were willing to sacrifice all, not for glory or reward but for blood and survival.

Buffy pulled away from the Abyss, wherein her demons stirred thirsting to punish her and saw Ziva looking at her with some concern, like she thought that Buffy might fall to the floor.

"Are you alright?"

"Yep. Fine."

"You do not look fine."

Buffy grinned weakly. "Just went to a bad place for a minute; I'm back now."

DiNozzo, who had finished reading his confidentiality form, frowned and slowly lifted his head.

"So, who get's to sign this? It says here that it has to be a member of the Guardian Council. Are they sending someone?"

Buffy sighed. "I told them to change that part – it's a pain in the ass. You read everything? No questions?"

Tony glanced over the last page again. "No, I think I get it. It's the easiest Confidentiality Agreement I've ever filled out: no small print, no loopholes, no threats . . . You sure this is the right form?"

Buffy strolled over to Tony and glanced over the page that required his signature. "Yep, that's the one."

"Alright . . ." Tony picked up his pen, printed his full name and the date and added his signature. "Now what?"'

Buffy held out her right hand. "Borrow your pen?"

Tony hesitated for a moment before slapping his pen lightly against her palm.

Buffy leaned a little closer and signed below his signature. "There you go." She leaned back and patted his shoulder. "Welcome to the club. I'll teach you the passwords and secret handshake later."

"I'm confused," said Tony. "You're not even on the list of Council members."

"I, too, am confused," Ziva added.

Buffy looked around the table; the confusion seemed to have spread to almost everyone at the table – to varying degrees.

"Fine," Buffy huffed, "here's the deal – I'm the thirteenth Council member."

Gibbs nodded like he had expected as much.

Director Vance leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He, too, seemed unsurprised by Buffy's admission.

"There a reason you didn't want to share your status?"

Buffy grimaced. "Because it's not a big deal? I figure it's more of an honorary thing, you know, 'cause I'm the oldest Slayer. Gives me some leeway when I need to get things done."

"You're the tie-breaker."

Buffy wasn't sure if Director Vance had asked a question or made a statement; either way the answer was the same. "Yeah, if it comes down to it."

"So . . . I guess that means you have a little more authority than you let on," Gibbs stated. "Sort of like . . . you're the boss."

Buffy felt the shift of her facial muscles as her expression hardened. She knew that her eyes were a little brighter. "No. I'm not. I was once, but . . ."

Gibbs stared into her eyes, unblinking. "But?"

Buffy held the gaze. "Is there somewhere we can do a video conference?"

Director Vance nodded. "Why don't we take a thirty minute break. We'll re-group outside MTAC."

Buffy was out the door before anyone could catch her. She needed space – as much as could be offered on a city street – and coffee.

* * *

Buffy was a few minutes late arriving at NCIS. Starbucks seemed to have attracted every nit-picking, obsessive idiot within a ten block radius – a few were extra nit-picky and obsess-y.

And then there was the, 'Oh, I don't know' girl.

"Which Caffè, ma'am? We have Caffè Americano, Caffè Latte and Caffè Mocha."

"Oh, I don't know . . . What's that?"

"Cappuccino? That's espresso with steamed milk and foam on top-"

"No. I don't think I'd like that . . . Maybe I'll just have a regular coffee."

"We have Sumatra, Italian Roast and Decaf Sumatra."

"Oh. I don't know . . . Not the decaf."

"What size ma'am? Short, Tall, Grande or Venti?"

"Mmm . . . The middle one."

"This one or this one?"

"Th-That one . . . Wait. Make it the smaller one."

And finally the 'Oh, I don't know' girl was ready to-

"How much? . . . Really? . . . For a coffee? . . ."

Buffy – on the verge of a psychotic break instigated by caffeine withdrawal – had pulled a five from her pocket and handed it to the poor boy behind the counter. She'd smiled thinly at the 'Oh, I don't know' girl and said, "Enjoy your coffee."

When the poor boy behind the counter had held out her change, Buffy had smiled sympathetically. "Keep it, you earned it."

As she'd left the coffee shop – extra big Sumatra in one hand, double Espresso in the other – one of the customers in the now dwindling line had thanked her.

"I think you just prevented a riot."

Buffy had grinned and flushed a little – the guy had been pretty cute and his smile had been melt-worthy. "Next time there will be. Never come between a Slayer and her caffeine fix."

The guy's smile had faltered a little; Buffy hadn't given him a chance to respond. She wasn't sure how many people remembered the bad press Slayers had been subjected to; whether they did or not, Buffy had decided, after Twilight, that keeping the existence of Slayers a secret was only going to lead to more fear; people feared what they didn't understand: different cultures; sexualities; faiths; behaviours . . . Apparently the Guardians Council had agreed with her and while they weren't going to go on Oprah and jump up and down on couches confessing their secret identities, a slow exposure would soften the blow when the truth was inevitably made public. And when it was – no doubt by some persistent reporter (Buffy actually had an idea about that) – maybe people, like the ones in the coffee shop, would remember that one of those women had paid for a strangers coffee, rescued twelve children from their abductors, saved an old Scottish shop owner from a gang of little boys with jeans hanging down their asses, who probably couldnt've hit a damn thing anyway cause they had no idea how to hold their weapons . . .

By the time Buffy had reached NCIS she realised that she was smiling.

"Best $5 I've spent in a while."

Daniel caught her attention as she approached MTAC. He was standing with Agent McGee; apparently, the others were already inside.

"Did you get lost?"

Buffy snorted. "Nope. Almost lost my cool."

"What are your intentions here, Buffy? What happened before the formation of the Guardians doesn't reflect on your current relationship with any of the agencies – in any of the countries, for that matter."

"I hate secrets, Daniel, and if NCIS wants to work with the Guardians the past is going to be talked about."

"Well then, maybe this is a good idea. I think it's about time you stopped carrying around all that guilt." Daniel smiled. "It makes you look like a hunchback, you know."

"Gee, thanks. 'S no wonder I can't get a date."

McGee pointed at the door. "If you're ready . . ."

* * *

Buffy was center stage in front of the screen that dominated MTAC, hands clasped behind her back, eyes a little nervous. "Ok. You all know the history and stuff . . . Um . . . D'ya know how much I hate public speaking?" Abby smiled sympathetically; Ziva smiled in a way that was not helping Buffy's anxiety. "Why don't I fill in one or two of the big blanks: why and what.

"Once upon a time, like, after we were all squirmy little things and before the first civilizations, there were these creatures that, like the dinosaurs, ruled the earth. There were all kinds and they weren't all dumb like T-Rex; some of them were actually really smart. Everyone knows what happened to the dinosaurs, right? Something like happened to these gods of beasts. She was called the Slayer. Now, the Slayer back then wasn't really big with communication or hygiene, but she was wicked with a blade; you guys have seen it – funny looking axe I used at the hangar?" She took a moment to appreciate the surprise dawning on, first Ziva's and Tony's faces and then the others. "She cut the numbers down – pun intended – to reasonable amounts and most of the head honchos split. They left their children behind, though, so the Slayer line continued and blah blah blah . . . here I – we – are, keeping the world safe for everyone."

Tony opened his mouth, obviously prepared to speak. Buffy grinned.

"Questions for teacher can wait, Anthony."

Tony's mouth snapped closed.

"The 'what' is easier. Think of all of things you've seen in mythology, faerie tales, movies . . . Everyone knows Dracula, right? Fought him. The werewolf? Dated my best friend in high school. The mummy? Tried to seduce my other best friend. Frankenstein? Well, kinda had two of those; one was more crazy brother resurrects his football star brother and the other was a military mishap gone wrong. There's more, but I'm sure you get the point. You do, right?"

Wordless affirmations.

"When you look at the big painting, things make a little more sense. I mean, if you were a monster, you'd want to lay low, practice some discreet eating, otherwise – people are gonna know. Some of them got bored, being on a diet and that's how they got found out.

"Anyway, these things I've been talking about, we have a generic name for them – Chimera." Buffy paused for a moment. "Gold stars to the first two people who know what a Chimera is."

Hardly a pause before Ziva answered, "The Chimera is a mythological monster, from the Greek; it possessed the body of a lion, with a serpent, or dragons neck, for a tail and a goats head rising from its back."

Buffy grinned. "Gold star for Ziva – and so many interesting places to put it." Ziva smiled back mischievously.

Abby waved her hand. "I know! I know! Pick me!"

Buffy chuckled. "Abby?"

Abby lowered her hand. "A chimera is also something or someone who has a part, or parts of their body that are distinctive from the others; they actually have different DNA. In most cases it's not that noticeable; could be a little thing like being the only one in your family who can curl their tongue."

"And a gold star for Abby. Wow, I lucked out on the star giving. But, yeah, that's why the Guardians call the things that make you scream in the night what they do. It was Willow's idea actually; she's kinda smart and just a little quirky but that's probably why she thought of it in the first place.

"We, we being the Slayers, have more specific names for a lot of things but, to make it easy, we stick to Chimera as sort of a generic term. The only difference? How tough something is. Some things, like vampires, you can't really rate as a . . . species? Point is, 'cause they live for so long and have a tendency of getting tougher they older they get, you can't really guess until you're close enough and by then, they pretty much know what you are and it's moot." Buffy paused, thoughtfully. "Hey, anyone know if 'moot' is Scottish?"

Dr. Mallard answered. "It's from old English, actually, although I can understand your confusion."

Buffy smiled at the Doctor. "Thanks. So many words, so many accents, so little time. So, the levels – there's five. One is considered low risk – a young vamp, for example. Five is considered . . . well, something that no human should face – and I don't care how well they're armed – and only a very experienced Slayer, preferably backed up by three or four more, should consider facing.

"There's one more level, we only use it for special world endy events – Level A; the 'A' is for apocalypse. We've had a few of those in the past; the last one was the war with Twilight. Daniel told you about them, right?"

Director Vance answered. "He did. Rogue military operation backed by foreign assistance and equipped with classified technology and other resources. One mission: to eliminate the threat of the Slayers and the your allies."

Buffy nodded. "That's about it. And no matter how much of a super hero you are, tanks, helicopters, missile launchers and really big guns are gonna kill you just as quick, especially when you're only armed with swords and crossbows."

"So, how'd you win?" Tony asked.

"Twilight wasn't just the name of the group, it was the name of the person who led them. I made a deal with, ah, someone who was interested in making sure the world wasn't turned into a wasteland by humans. She gave me a little boost and I took Twilight's head. Had the skull cleaned and lined with silver when we reached the island the Guardians live on now. Used it to toast the fallen. Anyway, after he lost his head all the fight seemed to leave most of the regular troops; gave us the break we needed. Still, way too little way too late.

"We started with 1000 Slayers. We didn't lose all of them in Tibet. Some of the younger Slayers were staying in camps, you know, to keep them out of the action. Didn't help."

Buffy looked at McGee. "Could you put something up on the screen for me?"

"Yep." McGee got up and walked to the row of computers; Buffy followed and held held out a flash drive.

"The file's call 'Bodycount'," Buffy said.

McGee opened the flash drive, found the file and loaded it to the main screen.

**Slayer Dissemination Post 'Twilight'**

Numbers Beginning 1000

Killed in Action 470

Retired From Duty 230

**Guardian Membership**

Active 200 Normals 70

Active/Wounded 30

**Note**: These are estimations.

"Anyway, after we regrouped and settled – and turned the girls who wanted to be normal again, normal – I resigned my positions as General Buffy and Slayer Buffy and took off. They're doing pretty awesome without me and I figure the nightmares will stop in a century or so."

Tony was frowning and clicking his thumb and index finger nails together. "So . . . You were fighting soldiers armed with some of the best equipment around and backed up by helicopters, tanks and missile launchers and you figure you screwed up?"

Silence. Ziva glanced at Tony, a warning in her eyes.

"The way I figure it, you guys were like the 300 Spartans, only you saved more than fifty percent of your troops and won the battle." Tony looked at Buffy with something that might have been . . . admiration. "'There's a chance that whatever the hell we're involved in comes down to the same odds – I'm picking your side."

The corners of Buffy's mouth rose into a self-effacing smile, a reflexive response she doubted she would ever conquer. "Wasn't quite that simple, but thanks."

"Were the men and women involved ever charged," Vance asked.

Daniel answered. "Most were, after an extensive manhunt; some didn't want to be taken into custody and a few remain free. The agents affiliated with the United States government are awaiting trial; all foreign agents were transferred to their countries of origin. Most of the individuals involved will be charged with treason. The British government has forgiven our unintentional involvement; the Tibetan government has been less willing to forgive.

"Other charges have been brought against the members of Twilight appropriate to their involvement. Buffy, did you bring Mr. Wells' documentary?"

"Yeah." She leaned down. "McGee, can you bring up the directory." He did. She pointed to a file named, 'Why We Fight'. "That one."

McGee turned his chair around and started the file. It was a short narrated pictorial of the events of the war, including the losses and current status of the Slayers who had fought. Andrew had done justice to the Slayers and their comrades. When the narrator – a very solemn and mature sounding Andrew – began to speak, Buffy sat in the chair next to McGee, laid her palms flat on her thighs and closed her eyes.

She didn't need to see this again.

She reached into the emptiness within and when she caught it, allowed herself to fall,

fall,

into the nothing.

Her breathing slowed and then her pulse.

Her awareness quieted. Though she could still hear the voices both recorded and live, the words were muffled . . . distant . . .

months away . . .

in a house on the ocean. 

* * *

**December, 2008, Beach House, Bristol Main**

"Being predator or prey – it's like foreplay. The kill is the climax. Everything is so focused. Muscles and tendons move the arms and legs so fast, it happens before I think. It's like . . . being shot. I heard the bang, but the fist in my chest and the fingers squeezing my heart – that was already happening.

"I could do that. I could kill someone and they wouldn't even know that the last word they spoke or thought they had would _be_ their last . . . Did that make sense?"

"Have you?"

"What? You mean, intentionally killed a human? Sort of. At the end of the war, I picked up a rifle and blew the back of Warren Mears head off. Not the same rush though."

"There's no record of this. Everyone I've spoken to, they have no idea who shot Warren Mears. Oh, there's speculation of course."

"No one saw me. Why would they? You'd blink and there'd be a fucking crater in front of you and you're picking someone's flesh and bones off your clothes and trying not to lick your lips cause your face is covered in blood. Guns are firing constantly and sometimes you can feel the bullets fly by. The screaming, it's not like the sound of someone on a rollercoaster; it's the sound of someone who's lost a body part or has a hole in their body where there shouldn't be one. Don't hear it as much anymore."

"But you do still hear screaming?"

"Like I said, not as much. Sometimes I hear things that are worse. Sometimes . . . I hear this – the sound of the water and wind, your heartbeat, the squirrels and the birds . . . You know, normal things. And then I remember that I really am still alive and the war is over . . .

"Really wish you'd let me out – there's gotta be something to kill out there . . ."

* * *

Buffy twitched. She grabbed on to the empty again and let the thoughts drift . . . a voice drifting from the speakers invoked another memory . . .

* * *

**January, 2006, Somewhere in the Queen Charlotte Sound**

"You're leaving?"

"Yep. I'm done. And there's a big world out there that I haven't seen except the times we 'ported somewhere to clean up a mess."

Buffy's eyes drifted to her window and for a moment

she was gone.

KNOCK-KNOCK

echo . . . echo . . .

"You know when the last time I went out to dinner was? Sunnydale with Robin and that turned out to be about business. Time for Buffy to retire, maybe salvage some kind of semi-normal life."

Willow crossed her arms over her chest defensively. "What about us? What do you want us to do about . . . everything?"

Buffy shrugged, the perfect example of a noncommittal shrug; a gesture usually only perfected by politicians and military brass. "Not my call anymore. And you – you should do what you want. Go back to school; take a trip to La-La-Land and visit your not other girlfriend. Everyone gets to decide – that's my suggestion. We gave the girls who wanted to be normal again what they wanted; the Slayers who are still here can make their own choices. After that, the world's your pearl."

"Oyster, Buffy."

"Have you actually looked at an oyster? Why would you want your world to look like that?"

"So . . . Is this a permanent thing? You're going to stay in touch, right?"

Buffy mimicked a smile. "Give me a year or two, Willow."

Buffy picked up Mr. Gordo II from her bed; pressed his snout against her own.

"Oink-oink." She tossed the stuffed animal on the bed and zipped up her rucksack. "You should really get in touch with the real world, make some friends. It's not like Slayers are a big secret anymore and if Slayers aren't a secret, you can bet that people are gonna start paying more attention to the other stuff. I mean – if there's enough of you left and that's what you want to do."

"What about Dawn?"

Buffy shrugged her pack over her shoulder and picked up her rucksack. "Dawn's old enough to make her own choices even if that means being angry with me."

"Buffy . . ." Willow said, reprovingly.

"We tried talking, Willow; you and Xander were there, remember? You stopped Dawn from hitting me in the head with a plate."

"You guys have fought before."

"Yeah, I know. This time, though, it's gonna take time. Anyway, she's got Xander now. Keep an eye on them, 'k?"

"You know I will. What about the Slayers? Don't you want to say goodbye?"

"Why? So they can cheer? Thanks – no. Surprised they're not waiting with pitchforks and torches – I probably woulda sharpened a few forks and lit a few torches." Buffy's finger tips quickly rose to cover Willow's lips. "Don't. I know it wasn't all my fault, but the bad stuff . . . Coulda done better, is all I'm sayin'. Homer Simpson coulda done better."

Buffy lowered her fingers.

Willow licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. "They don't all . . . not like you and, you know, in a few months they'll probably see the big picture and then they'll know . . . Sorry, I really have nothing."

"'S cool, Willow. Take care of yourself. I mean that, just 'cause I'm not gonna be around . . ."

Willow smiled. "You too, Buffy – really."

Buffy took a step towards her bedroom door; turned. "Willow, I . . . uh . . . you know." She grinned shyly and ducked her head.

Willow closed the space; lifted her hand to Buffy's cheek and pressed it against the warm skin. "I know, Buffy. I 'uh' too."

Turned out there was no cheering or pitchforks and burning torches. Just a few stoic witches who opened the portal to her freedom.

* * *

**Present Day, NCIS**

Buffy brought herself out of the emptiness slowly. She had, subconsciously, recognized the ending speech of the documentary.

'And there wasn't a dry eye in the house.'

She opened her eyes; the show was over. 'Course, this wasn't a movie theatre filled with fangirls (and boys) here to worship their favourite angsty vamp or werewolf (not that she was knocking Taylor Lautner or Ashley Greene), this was a Federal Agency and she doubted that anyone in the audience would have been too shocked but what they had seen.

She turned her chair to face the room; all eyes were on her. She shrugged negligently. "That's why I don't play 'boss' anymore. I'll do everything I can to protect the people I work with, but I'm done with telling people to go out and die – someone else can take a turn. So, if anyone wants to change their vote . . ."

Expressions varied, but no one spoke, not with words at least. But their eyes whispered sympathy or understanding. Surprisingly, when the silence was bordering on melodramatic, Abby said,

"Your life sucks."

Her words were so brazen and matter-of-fact, Buffy couldn't help it – hadn't she been saying the same for thirteen years – she laughed. Abby grinned in response.

Buffy stood and stretched her arms. "Timothy, could you set me up with a video link? Here's the thingy." She held out a piece of paper with an IP address printed on it.

McGee joined her and took the slip of paper. "Do they know about this? Did you want to send them a message first?"

Buffy shook her head. "Nope. They know."

McGee nodded. "Ok."

A few moments later, the screen flickered and an image appeared. The feed appeared to be transmitting from a circular room with windows rising from approximately a meter and a half up the wall. Through the windows, Buffy could see blue sky streaked with white clouds. Five people were sitting comfortably close to the wall on an assortment of chairs. Faith was lying on a padded teak lounger; one of her legs – bandaged from ankle to knee – was propped on pillow. She was wearing sunglasses and had an open bottle of beer in her hand. Buffy's laugh became a snort as she quickly covered her mouth with her hand – the sky was blue and Faith was Faith. Buffy had come to rely on these constants, they helped keep life simple.

Beside Faith, Cassandra, Satsu and Willow shared a teak daybed; a low round table sat at either end of the bed. Cassandra looked as enchanting as ever; even transmitted from three thousand plus miles away, she lured Buffy's eyes; their eyes met and both smiled. Satsu looked older. Maybe it was the long braid and the furrows at the corners of her eyes and mouth; she met Buffy's eyes briefly but offered nothing – not just older, more impassive, too, it seemed. Buffy couldn't blame her. Willow grinned and Buffy grinned back. Twelve and a half years of friendship, surviving some of the worst and best moments in their lives: the grins and the affection displayed in their eyes was fiercer now; time only drew them closer. Sitting in a padded chair with a high back, to the right of Willow, was Giles. Buffy was happy to note that someone had introduced him to the world of suits that weren't tweed but she would bet that the liquid in the crystal tumbler he held was high end whiskey, likely a Macallan 18 or 20 year old. Giles smiled, affectionately and respectfully. Buffy and Giles had resolved what they had needed to and come to terms with the differences they shared about issues past and present. There was trust there, again, but they would never share the familial bond they once had.

For a moment, there was silence on both ends of the transmission. And then – Willow squealed,

"Buffy! Your hair's so short! The last time I saw you it was super long. And you're still too skinny – even Slayers named 'Buffy' still need to eat, you know." From excitement to recrimination in two seconds. Buffy grinned – it had been too long.

"Gee, Willow, we haven't had a face to face in six months and the first thing you do is mother me?"

"Sister you," Willow answered. "We saw you in the paper, with that big-wig from the government? Did ya have fun? You looked kinda cranky. I guess I'd be kinda of cranky too if I had to play nice with all those people."

"Ah, yeah. The big-wig? That was the Secretary of Defense – thought it said that in the paper? – and the dinner party was . . . I didn't hurt anybody, but I really wanted to poke a few eyes out. Guess governments types aren't used to having a small, tattooed, woman in a sleeveless Versace in their crowd." Buffy looked a little dreamy when she continued. "And that dress was to die for. Guess I'll have to find something new for the New Year's party." She realised that, while Willow, Cassie and Faith were grinning, everyone else seemed to be wondering when the conversation would start to include them. "Oh-kay . . . Guess I should start with the introductions. I'll start." Buffy walked to the end of the row of chairs and began. "Special Agent Timothy McGee; Forensic genius, Abigail Sciuto; Medical Examiner, Dr. Donald Mallard; Assistant Medical Examiner, Jimmy Palmer; Special Agent, Ziva David; Special Agent, Anthony DiNozzo; Special Agent, Leroy Jethro Gibbs; the Director of NCIS, Leon Vance; and . . . Daniel – pretty sure you remember him."

Buffy stepped closer to the screen and turned to face the members of NCIS. "And, from left to right: Alpha Slayer, Faith Lehane; Psychologist and Field Medic, Cassandra Montague; Head of Slayer Operations, Satsu Takeda; Head of the Arcanes and Techs, Willow Rosenberg; and Head of Research and Information, Rupert Giles."

The two groups exchanged pleasantries. Buffy noticed that the NCIS crew were obviously curious about the individuals on the screen. DiNozzo, McGee and Palmer couldn't seem to decide on which woman was more appealing; Buffy didn't have the heart to tell them that only one of them was straight. While Ziva seemed to be appraising not just the physical aspects of the women but also what strengths they hid, Abby's curiosity seemed to encompass all of the individuals on the screen. Agent Gibbs and the Director were subtler in their appraisal but, as she had learned from previous experience, they were ascertaining more about each of the Guardians by way of watching and listening.

When the chatter had settled, Willow began the introduction to the Guardians: who they were and how they operated. Much of this NCIS had already heard from Daniel, the day he and Buffy had explained why Buffy was so interested in the Agency and its agents. Willow knew that; she kept it simple. Buffy let her and the other Guardians do the talking now. They could answer the questions Director Vance and Gibbs were asking about finances and training; Abby's questions about the research they did; McGee's questions about the computer security; and Tony's question about the male to female ratio. The conversation eventually wound down and Buffy again took center stage.

"Maybe we should get into the fun stuff, like security clearances and measurements? That way NCIS can catch up on the big picture while I'm out west."

Buffy responded guilelessly to the curious looks. "What? Didn't I tell you? I'm leaving tonight. Courtney and I are taking Owen McDowell and Elsie Morgan to the Guardian's Vancouver office and then we're going down to LA to meet someone named 'Hetty'. After that, we're off to San Diego to follow up on some leads the FBI had on the missing agents and cops and then to Texas. Fort Worth's lost a few men and women. They thought it was to a drug cartel at first but after the CID saw the autopsy reports, they called me to have a look. Don't worry, someone will be watching." She winked at Ziva.

Ziva rolled her eyes. "Yes, just make sure you lock up your valuables."

Buffy grinned. "So, is there a computer I can log into?"

The process didn't take long. Buffy had done this a few times already with other Agencies. Logins, passwords and handprint scans; clothing and boot sizes; medical conditions and allergies: each agent took their turn followed by the support staff and, finally, Director Vance.

Willow explained the handprint scans. "Two reasons. First, we need accurate measurements of your hands for the gloves and second, so we can add your fingerprints to our security scanners. After Buffy gets a voice print from each of you, you'll be able to get into any building the Guardian owns, including the house she's staying at."

"Consider it a safe house," Buffy added. "If you need it, use it."

"What about the medical information?" Tony asked.

Cassandra answered. "In case you need to be patched up by one of us or someone in a hospital that might not readily have your medical information. Buffy will give you each a card with a phone number and instructions on it; keep it with you. If someone finds the card, they'll be instructed to call me and I'll pass on what they need to know. I'll also make sure you receive proper treatment and have security posted while you're recovering."

"I need one more thing before you go," Willow said. "Usually we assign one or two agents higher security access. It means they can look at almost all of the information we have, including research. Do guys have two candidates?"

Vance crossed his arms and looked at Gibbs. "Well, Gibbs?"

"Abby," Gibbs answered immediately. "And McGee."

Vance nodded. "One in the field, one in the building. I agree."

Willow smiled. "Done. You guys should be good to go in an hour or so."

Buffy clapped her hands in front of her. "Well, this was fun but I really do have to go – I still have packing to do before Courtney picks me up." She turned to look at the screen. "See you . . . um, the next time, I guess."

The two parties made their farewells and the connection ended. Buffy turned to address the NCIS personnel. "I guess I'll see you guys soon."

Director Vance stood and approached Buffy. He held out his hand. "Miss Summers. It's been an interesting morning. When will you be back?"

Buffy took the Director's hand and shook it. "Six days, tops. If we find anything related to the case, I'll let you know." Buffy picked up her jacket and pulled it on. "Be good."

Director Vance glanced at Gibbs. "You know, you two have a few things in common – you both mainline caffeine and you both can't sit still."

"Yeah. She looks better in a dress though."


	9. Pre Flight Contemplations

**I'm looking to the sky to save me  
Looking for a sign of life  
Looking for something to help me burn out bright  
I'm looking for a complication  
Looking cause I'm tired of trying  
Make my way back home when I learn to fly high.**

**Foo Fighters**

**Wednesday November 4th, 2009, Reagan National Airport**

Buffy closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose. "Mmm . . . We need to go this way first," she said, turning the well laden baggage cart sharply to the left.

Courtney shook her head and smiled. "I bet, if we dropped you in the Mojave Desert without a compass, you would find your way out by sniffing for the nearest _Starbucks_."

Buffy considered this as she navigated the cart through the streams of – mostly – oblivious people. One very obnoxious women, who had been talking on a cell while simultaneously, and quite awkwardly, manipulating her _iPod Touch_, had already run into the cart. Her tirade-

"What the hell, bitch! Are you blind or just stupid?"

-had ended rather abruptly when Buffy had taken a single step forward, crossed her arms and glared.

Courtney had openly grinned at the sudden change in the offended woman's expression and her hasty retreat to any place that wasn't close to Buffy.

Buffy had muttered something that Courtney hadn't bothered to translate into normal people English and returned to her place behind the cart. Her mood had rapidly improved when she'd smelled the coffee.

The line at _Starbucks_ wasn't as daunting as Buffy had expected. She left Courtney with the cart and joined the queue, snapping a crisp, fresh from the ATM, twenty between her thumb and index finger. She wondered how much coffee one could consume before their atoms vibrated so fast they divided and went nuclear. She had a good idea she was going to find out in the next week. She was exhausted. Sleep had been even more elusive than normal and even when she had slept, the nightmares had paraded through her subconscious and devoured all hopes of peaceful slumber. She was due for some proper R&R.

Buffy returned to Courtney and joined her on the bench. "Here you go." She held a coffee out. Courtney took it and peeled back the tab on the lid.

"Thank you."

Buffy nodded and drank a quarter of her _Venti Sumatra_ with a shot of Espresso; she swore she could feel the caffeine agitating her cells.

Courtney pushed up the sleeve of her jacket and looked at her watch: they had twenty minutes before they needed to check in with Airport security. Fortunately, security had been forewarned of their arrival and the paper work required to transport their equipment – Buffy had brought a small armoury with her – had been authorised by the Office of the Secretary of the Navy.

Agents Crutcher, Erickson, Greer and Olivera were escorting Owen McDowell and Elsie Morgan directly to the boarding gate. Greer and Olivera had gathered whatever belongings Owen and Elsie had needed and had purchased any extras. Owen had been heavy on the 'extras'; he hadn't wanted much from the home he had shared with Harry Winkler – not after the infestation: an old bomber jacket that had belonged to his biological father, photographs and a few books. All of the items had been decontaminated and packed in his new suitcase with his newly purchased and washed clothing. Elsie hadn't asked for much more from her own apartment: a few pieces of jewellery, a photo album and whatever clothing that had been clean.

Buffy had yet to give Owen the flash drive, letter and money Harry Winkler had left him; Director Vance had released that much of the evidence after Miss Sciuto had verified that the flash drive contained information meant specifically for Owen (regardless of the mention of the account in the _British Caribbean Bank_) and the money was clean: everything Own and Elsie would need to live a modestly wealthy life somewhere far from Washington.

Courtney sighed. Buffy bumped her shoulder with her own.

"What's up?"

"I guess I'm feeling a little sorry for Owen and Elsie. Owen's lost so much and now . . . He won't be able to come back until all of this is over and I don't think this is going to be over soon." Courtney turned her head to look sadly at Buffy. "It isn't, is it?"

Buffy smiled; it was brief and disconsolate. "No. Not this time."

Courtney nodded. "Well, maybe the money will help. Maybe Owen and Elsie will find somewhere nice to settle down, get married, have kids and grow old together."

Buffy didn't want to challenge Courtney's optimism: hope, like love, was precious and she knew that they'd both need it in the future. Whatever the eventual nature of the crisis, it was already threatening to eclipse anything that had risen in Sunnydale and after – despite the magnitude of Twilight's campaign.

So, she smiled and squeezed Courtney's hand. "Yep, and one day you too will have all that."

Courtney stood and grinned wryly. "Time to go."

Buffy got up, passed her coffee to Courtney and grabbed the handles of the baggage cart. Side by side they walked to the Departure gate.

"And the chances of that," Courtney said, "are pretty small. I scare men."

Buffy snorted. "_You_ scare men? Right. _I_ scare men _and_ women. Remember the guy I told you about? In New York?"

"Buffy, you did break his bed."

Buffy pouted. "I was . . . enthusiastic."

"And, Julie? Was that her name?" Buffed nodded. "You wanted to have sex with her on the roof of her apartment building?"

Buffy's pout had evolved to a cheeky grin. "Yeah . . . so?"

"On the ledge, thirty-two stories up, Buffy?"

Buffy giggled. "Hey, danger can be sexy." She grinned again when a young man they were passing added –

"I like danger."

Buffy glanced at Courtney and wiggled her eyebrows. "Know what I've never done? Had sex on a plane. You'd figure, with all the opportunities I've had . . . Maybe we'll have a hot flight attendant."

Courtney groaned. As much as she would've liked to think that Buffy would never do anything so bold, she remembered all the other times that Buffy had been bold and she groaned again.

To be continued in . . .

Finding the Connective Tissue - Buffy and Courtney find some answers in LA and Texas while NCIS regroup and piece together the pieces they have.


End file.
